Rosaria's Fifth
by dankbouls87
Summary: Based on my Dark Souls 3 character. Raised in the Cathedral of White, Verna experiences a troubled childhood, but grows into a capable and eager herald. Her first mission to an undead settlement ends in disaster, and this fateful moment sets her on a quest for revenge, as well as a forsaken covenant with the Mother of Rebirth.
1. Childhood 1

**Childhood 1 – Hide and Seek**

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Verna made herself as small as possible at the top of the rotted tree, her fur cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders. She dared not move a muscle or draw breath, or even blink. Her pursuer was upon her. She could hear the metal boots crushing sticks below, stomping carelessly across the flooded woods in their merciless hunt. They halted directly below, and the spiked helmet creaked as it scanned the misty swamps of Farron, searching for her.

Despite the child's fear, she was not panicked. She had been in this situation before, many times. She knew just what to do. The knight was a formidable monster, able to bleed a man to death in minutes, but he was of simple mind. Once given a task, he would not rest until it was complete, giving no thought to anything more. He was a brainless brute with no defense against the simplest of wits.

The warrior would not look up, not unless she alerted him. Ever so carefully, the red-haired girl slid a delicate hand into her pouches full of trinkets, and produced a small prism stone. She gripped the shining yellow orb in her palm, then drew back and threw.

The stone sailed silently between the branches and landed in the waters with a loud plop. The thorned knight immediately moved to investigate the noise. Verna waited until he had walked further into the swamp, then hastily slid down the tree. She dropped to the ground, her bare feet making not a sound, and turned once more to make sure her pursuer was distracted.

The child froze as she stared right into his porous iron mask. He was learning.

The time for games was past. Verna sprinted into the poisonous waters, wincing as it seeped into her legs, tainting her blood. The mire would not harm her immediately, but she could not stand in it for long without risking death. She raced towards the closest island, weaving through the swamp to avoid the sinkholes, and reached into her pockets in preparation.

Suddenly, the waters surged. She nearly slipped into the poison as she skidded to a halt, eyes wide in terror at the cluster of giant worms that reared their slimy heads. She had run straight into a nest of slugs.

The closest one opened its mandibles and shot a stream of venomous bile, which the girl barely avoided. Another lunged towards her, almost knocking her back into the poisonous swamp. She could feel the toxins burning her legs, and with a cry, she charged straight through the worms in a desperate escape. Their blubbery bodies bumped against her, their mandibles snapped at her thighs, then she dove towards dry land.

Verna fell short of her mark, landing with a splash against the shoreline. She quickly crawled onto the island, but that brief second made all the difference. The poison was flooding her veins, eating at her insides. She frantically pulled a fistful of purple moss from her pocket, but heart immediately sank — the moss was ruined, soaked in swamp water.

A retching noise came from behind, and she rolled sideways as poison bile struck the dirt. The slugs were closing in, not caring whether she was poisoned or not. As they slithered closer, the girl looked past them, to the faceless knight wading through the swamp, barbed blade in hand.

Ignoring the lump in her stomach, the girl leapt from the ground and ran. She sprinted lightly through the hindering mire, ignoring its poisonous effects as they had already taken hold. She was racing against time itself now, her blood becoming thicker than the sludge she waded through. She had mere minutes before her heart would stop completely.

She ran blindly through the woods, unable to keep track of her heading, until she came across a miraculous discovery. As if by divine intervention, Verna beheld a ruin rising from the flooded forest, perched high atop a rocky hill. More importantly, she could see purple moss growing up the sides of the worn stone walls. All she had to do was get there.

The girl leapt onto a small boulder to begin her ascent, though her limbs felt like silk. Her hands could not grip the rocks, and her slick bare feet offered no support. She got halfway up the hill before she lost her footing, and nearly toppled back into the poisoned swamp. She swung from the rocky surface by one hand wrapped painfully around a jagged protrusion.

"No," Verna whispered to herself. "I won't go back." The girl jammed her foot between the stones, tearing her big toenail with the force. "I'll never go back there." She ignored the stinging pain and kept climbing, toes and fingers openly bleeding.

She finally collapsed at the top drawing ragged breath, barely conscious. The moss was just a few feet away, but her body would not respond. Her arms and legs were numb. It was all she could do to roll sideways, inch by inch, until her face rested against the soft vegetation. The young girl tore into the moss with her teeth and chewed, ignoring its vile taste. As she swallowed the bitter juices, she could feel the poison slowly fade. She closed her eyes in relief, realizing she would not die, at least not yet.

The purple moss could cure her poison, but not her fatigue. As Verna tore off another piece, she could not stay awake any longer, and succumbed to sleep.

.

* * *

.

Her eyes flew open with a start. She remained still, remembering where she was, and listened carefully for whatever had woken her. Soon, she heard the sound of clamping feet and snorting breath, just on the other side of the stone wall. Carefully, she slid against the crumbling ruins for cover, then gave a silent prayer to the Gods to protect her from the demonic creature.

It was getting closer, towards a section of the wall that had fallen away. Verna stared at the opening, realizing in terror that the snorts were not its breath. It was sniffing, hunting for her.

The beast appeared through the hole in the wall, its back to her. It crawled on all fours, and though its front hands appeared human, its hind legs were hairy and hooved. Its thick mane dragged across the floor as it sought the delicious scent, then slowly turned to face the little girl. She could not move at the sight of its twisting horns and eyeless gaze. She had come so far, only to become this abomination's next meal.

Suddenly, the monster spun in surprise and shrieked at some unseen foe. It rushed back down the hallway, which soon erupted with the sound of battle. Its opponent made no sound besides the clash of steel, and Verna knew whom it must be. She may have rested, but her pursuer had not.

As the demonic beast screamed in its death throes, she leapt to her feet. She had been spared from a torturous death, but she refused to submit to a torturous life. She would not stop, not now, not ever. She would keep running no matter how long it took, even if she had to run to the ends of the world. She would escape.

The girl turned to flee, and her foot broke through the hilltop. Verna abruptly dropped through the ground with a startled cry. She tumbled into a cavern, where she landed hard on the rocky floor, tears welling to her green eyes. Her ankle was sprained, blood swelling quickly into the socket. She tried to stand, but even the slightest pressure dropped her to the ground. Her determination faded into hopelessness, and she could barely contain her sobs.

As she cradled her sprained leg in the dirt, a single noise broke through her misery. She jumped and blinked through her tears as a different creature emerged in the cave's entrance. The four-legged lizard chirped, such an unthreatening sound, but it sent a chill through her bones. She knew what this creature was. It was a basilisk.

As it approached, two more of the bulb-headed reptiles stepped into the entrance, and Verna finally succumbed to despair. She had no defense against these beasts, no special plant that would counteract their deadly disease. A single breath from the basilisk would curse her, turning her permanently to stone. Against three of them, cornered, it was hopeless. The child closed her eyes and miserably accepted her fate. At least being a statue was not the worst way to die.

She could hear the basilisk's throat swell with gas, preparing to douse her in its petrifying spittle, when a loud splash echoed from the entrance. The basilisk shrieked and scampered away as the din of battle erupted. The sounds of screaming and tearing flesh filled her ears, and Verna dared to open one eye.

The warrior thrust his barbed blade into the last creature's spine. It squawked as it collapsed in the shallow pool, dead. The knight put a foot on the lizard's head and tore the lacerating edge free, causing blood and meat to fling from the wound, then straightened as clouds of spittle settled atop the waters behind him. With a creak, his armored visage turned towards Verna.

She could not run. The girl shook her head uselessly as the knight of thorns approached, his stiff gait splashing through the poisonous sludge without care. His shadow fell over her, and she could feel him glaring behind his solid, iron-wrought helm.

"No," she pleaded in a whisper. "I beg of you, don't take me back. I can't... I can't go back..."

At first, there was no response, and the knight of thorns remained silent. Then, a heavy creak broke the spell as he knelt beside the cowering child, wrapping his spiked gauntlets beneath her. Gently, so as not to wound her, he took the girl into his arms, holding her close against his cold chestplate. He turned from the cave and strode dutifully through the deadly water, stepping over the gory bodies of the basilisks. Verna rested her head against the unyielding armor, tears streaking her dirty face as the world faded from sight.

"Please, Kirk... I don't wanna go home..."


	2. Childhood 2

**Childhood 2 – Penance**

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At first, there was only dark. Then came fire.

Verna's eyes fluttered open to the warm glow of candlelight, and she glanced around in confusion. A cleric knelt beside her, solemnly chanting and striking his chime in succession. A ring of golden light encircled them, fading in and out of sight, each pulse of miraculous magic rejuvenating her vitality. She stared at her hands and bare feet — they were still bloodied, but without a trace of scratch or blemish. Even her big toenail had regrown.

Past her feet, at the foot of the bed, a figure loomed over her. He appeared even taller with his conical crown, a red ruby embedded amidst the intricate gold and white. With his hands on his hips, his voluminous holy garb looked like folded wings. She shrunk at the sight of him, not because he was imposing, but because he was the last person she wanted to wake up to.

"Verna, you foolish child," Archdeacon Klimt began. "Will you ever listen? How many times must I remind you the swamps of Farron are too dangerous? You could have been killed, or worse!"

She turned away, refusing to answer, allowing the cleric's hymns fill the silence. The gold-robed man sighed and held up a stiff hand. "That's enough, clergyman. She needs only to be strong enough for her penance, after all." As the priest bowed and left them alone, Verna's jaw clenched. She did not want another penance. She did not want to be here at all.

"Why must you insist on fleeing the Cathedral, my dear? This is your home. This is where you belong. If you cannot accept your lot, then you will never know peace. Do you not understand this?" He received no reply. "Answer me, Verna."

"No, father."

The Archdeacon blinked. "What do you mean, no?"

"No," his red-haired daughter repeated herself. "I do not understand. I do not accept my lot, which is to be stuck in this rotting prison! I know peace, and it is when I am outside, when I am free!"

Klimt's glare narrowed dangerously. "You would prefer the abominations of that, that... forsaken _cesspool_ to the safety and purity of the Church?" He leaned forward, his flowing robe blocking out the candlelight. "You would be wise to watch your tongue. That does sound like the talk of the accursed."

With that, he turned abruptly and left the child alone on the stone cot. As he rounded the corner, Verna spotted another figure in the archway, waiting, her wide-rimmed hat concealing most of her features. Only a devious, toothy smile was visible between the brim and frilled collar. The little girl fought the urge to moan and cry, even though she knew what was to come.

For her trespass against the Church, she must repent.

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* * *

.

Verna's father joined his fellow Archdeacons on the balcony overlooking the cathedral's interior, where the giant slaves continually toiled to repair the crumbling foundations. As he approached, the pair of similarly robed figures turned with careful smiles.

"Ah, Klimt," the smaller one greeted him. "I heard tell that the knight of thorns has retrieved your daughter. Once again."

The Archdeacon steeled his expression and nodded. "Indeed. A lack of clarity on her part, but nothing we cannot rectify."

"You sound so certain, brother," spoke the third. He was an obese man, and his wide smile was nearly swallowed by his meaty cheeks. "Come, stand with us. Look across the Cathedral. Do you see what I see?"

Archdeacon Klimt reluctantly joined them at the balcony's precipice. He gazed out across the expansive sanctuary, its hollow interior housing vast metal gates that caged the ancient giants. "I see slaves fulfilling their duty. I see their wardens keeping them attentive. I see our clergymen keeping their faith. I see the Cathedral standing strong against the Dark, as it always has, and always will. Is that what you see, McDonnell?"

The plump figure chuckled mirthfully. "Quite right. I see all of that and more. I see many parts working as one towards a common goal. I see unfaltering faith. I see _devotion_. Without complete and utter devotion to our cause from every part, no matter how small, we are weakened as a whole. Don't you agree, brother Royce?"

The shorter man nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. Devotion is everything. What would happen if the clergymen ceased their prayers, if the giants ceased their toiling, if the villagers cut off our trade? We must be strong on all fronts, an impenetrable bulwark against the Dark. That is the only way we can ensure the legacy of our Lord."

Klimt nodded stiffly, though he suspected McDonnell had more than likely fed Royce those lines. "Of course, brothers. I understand. I assure you that such a transgression will not occur again."

McDonnell nodded, staring over the expansive cathedral, his beady eyes alight with pride. "I believe in you, Klimt, and in your daughter. She is meant for glorious things, after all. We would not want her disappearing just as our King calls for her, now would we?"

If Klimt was wooden before, he now turned to stone. "No, of course not. Excuse me, brothers. Verna's penance should be complete by now." He departed hastily before they could sense his regret.

.

* * *

.

The evangelist wiped blood from the leather whip as she wrapped it, her unfaltering smile never leaving her broad face. As the Archdeacon approached, he eyed the weapon with displeasure before addressing her. "How is she, Matron?"

The husky woman tilted her hat upward, revealing a vacant stare. "She did wonderfully, your holiness. She took every lash without crying out, all four of them."

He glanced past her, into the next room. Verna knelt on the floor with the back of her blouse untied, exposing deep lacerations. Her frail body shuddered uncontrollably in wracking pain, and she hugged her shirt to her shoulders. "Make it another four. This must not happen again."

The evangelist's smile grew even wider. "Of course, your holiness. Your daughter will be grateful for your paternal concern. I will make sure of it."

The Archdeacon nodded and continued on his way, as the Matron began her sermon of penance once more. Klimt could only imagine the confusion and fear his daughter must have felt. As the evangelist chanted, the first crack echoed through the chambers, and the girl finally cried in agony. Klimt shut his eyes, fighting to maintain composure, ignoring the looks from passing clergymen. He could have sworn there was a time when the Way of White was an unquestionable belief, a shining beacon that banished all that was impure. They followed the Lord Gwyn, respected his final wishes. They were righteous in their cause. He never had any reason to doubt before, so why did he feel it now?

Devotion was everything, but even the smallest doubt can weaken the most faithful.

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* * *

.

"There now, child. It's all over. You have served your penance graciously and with dignity."

Verna could barely keep upright, her shirt half-hanging from her bleeding backside. She sobbed softly, hopelessly, her spirit crushed. It is exactly what the evangelist had intended. The stout woman draped a cloth around the child, who winced as it brushed her wounds, then stood before her with a heavy tome in hand.

"Now, it is time to confess your sins. Not just your little flight, but all of them. I think we both know where to start."

Verna was barely able to breathe, but she struggled to answer. The evangelist may have put her whip aside, but the child knew better. That thick, leather-bound holy book could be just as painful. "I-I-I ran... away... into the swamp. And I'm not supposed to."

"Those are two sins, Verna. You abandoned your duties _and_ you disobeyed your father. We could consider that an order from the Archdeacon, as well. Three sins. Anything else?"

The girl thought desperately, knowing that any slight could be treated as a trespass. "I... I did not seek f-forgiveness for my trespass. I was stubborn towards my father."

The evangelist gleamed. "Very good, child. You showed no remorse, and did not repent. That was the fourth sin. Four lashes for four sins. Do you repent now?"

Verna nodded vigorously. "Yes Matron Dorhys, I repent!"

"Then you are forgiven, my dear. Do you have any other sins to confess? If you repent now, freely, there will be no penance later."

She did not want to answer. She did not want to tell her the truth, but if she feigned innocence now, it would only make things worse. "I... had feelings of resentment towards my father. I blamed him for my own sins."

"Why did you resent him?"

Verna choked up. "He keeps me here. I can never leave, I'm... I... I know it is for my own protection. I am... not prepared to face the Dark. Not yet."

"Exactly, child. Not _yet._ You must have patience, for you will surely face the beasts of the Abyss in due time. That is why you must stay here, with us. You must finish your training, and become a proper cleric."

"Of course, Matron Dorhys. I am grateful to serve in the name of our Lord."

The Matron nodded. "Very good. I now pronounce you cleansed. Remember to remain true to our ways, so we can avoid having this discussion again."

She did it. She was free to leave. All she had to do was stand up and return to her quarters, and she could escape this nightmare. Verna rose on shaking legs, ignoring how the blanket stung against her wounds, then started towards the exit. However, she froze in the archway, despite her eagerness to flee. There was one last thing gnawing at her soul, and she worried what it could become if she did not voice it now. Even as all her senses screamed at her to leave, Verna turned back towards the evangelist. "Matron? I have a last confession."

The wide-rimmed hat tilted in surprise. "Oho? And what would that be?"

"It is not my place to ask or know, but... I wonder, who is he? The knight of thorns?"

The Matron's smile remained perfectly still. "Child, why would ask such a thing?"

Verna shrugged. "He's always the one sent to retrieve me. I know it's to frighten me, my father says he's a monster of a man. But, he has never harmed me, not even by accident. Who is he? What does he look like beneath his helm?"

Dorhys leaned close, her eyes barely visible beneath her black hat. "Dear girl, believe me. You never want to know what is beneath that helm."

Verna had an uncomfortable walk back to her quarters, and an even more uncomfortable sleep. She lay flat on her stomach, feeling her open wounds burn. The clerics would not heal her until morning, leaving her to suffer through the night. However, as exhaustion overcame her agony, the red-haired girl finally slipped into slumber. As the world faded away, her mind drifted to Kirk once again.

Everyone claimed he was a killer, a monster, but they were wrong. Even Verna had underestimated him. He had not fallen for the prism trick like he always did. He was learning. What was truly strange, however, was that he hesitated. Verna begged him not to take her home, and he hesitated. That he had never done before.


	3. Childhood 3

**Childhood 3 – Not a Maiden**

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The bells rang clear before her, and small sprites sparkled from her chime. They were faint and translucent, mere wisps of white smoke, but it was something. She was so close, if only she could push herself past that last step, climb that final threshold. She repeated the mantra, rang the chime again, and a faint aura appeared around her. As soon as it was summoned, the glow faded. The miracle slipped from Verna's grasp.

"Gracious, child!" the evangelist exclaimed. "Can you not properly recite even a novice tale?"

The girl bowed her head as she leaned back on one knee. "Apologies, Matron Medeline. I understand the tale, I do, I just... I can't..."

"You understand it, but you do not _believe_ in it. Caitha would grieve all the more if she knew of such lacking faith! She did not die a thousand deaths for your doubt, Verna. Read the prayer again."

She grimaced, and raised herself to one knee. She held the chime aloft as she repeated the story, recalling the countless lives Caitha had suffered through, the countless rebirths she had undertaken. She remembered every tear that fell from the goddess' covered eyes, yet she did not sympathize. No matter how many times she recited it, the tale would remain just that — a tale.

The faint glow did not even appear this time, and the evangelist groaned. "Child, you take one step forward, and two steps backward. If you cannot cast such a basic miracle, how can you ever hope to become a maiden?"

Verna let the chime fall by her side, remaining silent. She did not know how to tell the Matron of her hopes, none of which included being a maiden of White. She wished not to devote herself to the tending of the flames, to spend the rest of her lifetime by their side. She did not want to be held captive any longer. She wanted to roam free, travel distant lands and spread the word of their Lord, like the heralds and missionaries. She wanted to face the dangers of the Abyss without fear, side by side with her fellow clerics. She wanted to...

"Verna," the evangelist snapped her out of her reverie, "you will return to your quarters and recite Caitha's blessing forty-four times. You will say it until your thoughts hold naught else, until you believe in naught else. We will make a proper maiden of you yet, child, one way or another."

The girl kept her head bowed, so that her deep crimson locks masked her reluctance. "Yes, Matron Medeline. Thank you."

.

* * *

.

The Archdeacon stared at the tutor. "What do you mean, she will not be a maiden? She must! We are beholden to the King, what would you have me tell him?"

The evangelist shrugged her broad shoulders. "I am only speaking the truth, your holiness. Your daughter cannot even cast the tale of Caressing Tears, which other novices have long since mastered. How could she possibly tend to the flames?"

"There must be something we can do, some way to teach her."

Medeline shook her head. "She possesses not the wisdom to become a maiden, nor even the patience to be a cleric. I fear there is little hope for her. I am sorry to have failed your holiness, but there is nothing more I can do."

Klimt nodded vacantly, and the evangelist left him alone on the high walkway. He stared across the cathedral, feeling as if he too had failed, and desperately sought some way to resolve this. For a moment, his eyes rose to an even higher balcony, one that appeared separate from the rest of the church, but he quickly averted his gaze. The Archdeacon refused to entertain that notion, now matter how desperate he became.

.

* * *

.

As Verna returned to her quarters, she heard a curious sound. People were chanting, but not a solemn hymn of the clergy. They were singing, soft and joyful, and she realized what that sound meant. The young girl skipped down the nearest stairwell and made her way to the grand hall, where she beheld a parade of children chaperoned by the evangelists. At the front of the procession was Matron Dorhys herself, gleefully leading the chorus.

Verna could not resist her curiosity. She snuck along the shadowed corners to crouch behind a pillar, less than foot away from a towering cathedral knight. With a quiet breath, she carefully slipped right in front of the warrior without a sound, and the knight was oblivious behind his narrow visor.

She hugged the wall, expecting to be caught at any moment, but managed to get just a few feet from the children. She ducked as an evangelist spun overhead, then snuck next to the procession and whispered, "Hey! Where are you going?"

One of the boys replied, "We're going to see Saint Aldrich!" The girl's jaw went slack as he skipped merrily past her, and she immediately questioned another. "Hey! Are you going to see the Saint?"

"Yeah!" a blonde girl replied. "Have you ever met him?"

"No, never," Verna admitted regretfully. "I've always dreamed of seeing him." She stared down the steep staircase, to the thick double doors at the bottom, and imagined their valiant savior waiting on the other side. She had already snuck into the parade, she was so close. Perhaps...

"Well then," the girl continued, "after I meet him, I'll come back for you, and we can go see him together! I promise!"

"Really? That would—" Verna was cut short as the cathedral knight stepped between them, and she fell back in surprise. One of the black-haired boys stuck out his tongue at the guard's back as the blonde girl waved with a grin.

"I'm Verna!" the redhead called out, even as the knight moved between them again. "What's your name?"

"Anri! Of Astora!"

As the children were led down the stairs and into the mausoleum, Verna glared up at the imposing guard. "Why do they get to see Saint Aldrich, and not me?"

The knight snickered as he looked down on her. "Are you a maiden yet?"

"Well... no."

"That girl was. Those children are all maidens and squires, chosen by our Saint to fight alongside him in his endless war against the Dark. They are special, and their souls pure." As Verna watched the last child disappear down the deep stairwell, she could not help but feel jealous of their good fortune.

.

* * *

.

"This is unacceptable, brother!" Royce paced about the chamber, nervously wringing his bony hands. "We swore an oath to the King! Do you know what he would do if we broke our promise? He could crush us, drive us from the Cathedral, from these very lands!"

"I know, Royce!" Klimt gritted his teeth. "I am aware of the consequences. That's why we must seek an alternative, immediately! If Verna is unable to recite a simple miracle, she will not be able to fulfill our oath regardless. We cannot change who she is. Not even our divine powers can do such a thing."

McDonnell made a guttural noise from his chair, which could barely contain his girth. "You are mistaken, brother. Perhaps your fatherly instincts are clouding your judgment. It is well within our power to change what she is."

The Archdeacon bristled. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that our good mother could remedy this problem with ease."

"Are you mad? She is but a child! We can't risk putting her through such a trial, and even if we did, her soul is not strong enough to make a difference. We could lose her forever, and we would be no better off!"

McDonnell glanced to Royce, who shrugged helplessly. "He does have a point. Powerful souls benefit the most from rebirth. It would be a frivolous use of our good mother's blessing."

"Well, what do you suggest we do instead? She is your daughter, Klimt, and this was your idea. It must be _you_ who resolves it."

The elderly man took a breath, and prayed to the Gods that this would work. "I... I know someone who might be able to help, one of our brothers in Carim. He is an apostle of the Archbishop, and owes me a debt of favor. With some luck, he may be able to procure a maiden worthy of tending the flame."

McDonnell guffawed. "That's your plan? We promised Lothric the daughter of an Archdeacon. What if he refuses a replacement? What if she too is not worthy? What if Carim suffers the same curse as we?"

Klimt raised his hand. "I understand your concern, brother, but I beg for your trust. I have heard tales from Carim, and I am certain they have what we need. Tell me, do you think the King would be so displeased if, instead of a daughter of an Archdeacon, we delivered him the daughter of an Archbishop?"

McDonnell's frown faded, and he raised a hefty eyebrow. "Your guile is impressive, Klimt. Perhaps your plan is not so preposterous, after all." He mused to himself for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Contact your friend in Carim. Find out if he can get us what we require."

"Thank you, brother," Klimt bowed graciously, and immediately stung with regret. Why was he treating McDonnell's word like it was the deciding vote? They were all Archdeacons, brothers serving together for the glory of the sun. If anything, he should look to _them,_ being an outsider and the newest of the three. "I will send the ravens immediately. I promise, no matter what, the King will have his Fire Keeper."

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* * *

.

The young girl knelt beside her cot, chime in hand, and recited Caitha's blessing for the thirty-seventh time. Just like every other attempt, a meager glow shimmered across her sleepwear, then faded without a trace. No matter how much she practiced, no matter how hard she believed, she could not cast the miracle.

"Why do you even bother?" another girl echoed her thoughts. The redhead tried to focus on her chant, but yet another began mimicking her, and more snickered in disdain. Verna could feel them watching; she struggled to keep balanced. Her chime rang out of rhythm, and the spell dissipated.

"Aw, did we ruin your prayer? You almost had it that time!" The group burst in to laughter as Verna glared at them. She recognized her heckler as Cliope, one of the older trainees. The tall girl smirked confidently as she approached, never breaking her gaze. "Want me to show you how it's done? Really, it's no trouble, just watch."

Verna glowered as the brunette knelt before her and began praying. A familiar white glow surrounded her, but something felt amiss, which the child could not place. Suddenly, the older girl stood straight with arms raised, then thrust her chime forward in a burst of force. Verna was caught completely by surprise, and her body flew limply through the air.

The small girl somersaulted once, then struck the corner of a bedpost before collapsing to the ground. The other girls gasped, and even Cliope looked concerned for a moment, but Verna eventually wobbled to her feet. She clutched the back of her head, a thin stream of blood trickling down her face. The room was silent until Cliope regained her bravado.

"Well, no wonder she forgets her prayers. Her skull is thick as a shield!"

Something snapped within Verna's mind. She stood, ignoring the throbbing pain in her head, and marched deliberately towards the older girl. Cliope's smirk faltered as she raised her chime. "Stay back," she warned. "I'll blast you again, I swear!"

The child ignored her threat. The brunette hastily recited her prayers, and Verna tried to move faster, but her vision was swimming, her legs weak. She was almost within reach when Cliope's hands went up again. Verna flinched as the chime shot forward.

This time, however, nothing happened. The bell jingled, but there was no burst of force. Cliope stared in confusion, turning the chime over as if expecting to find it broken, and Verna did not hesitate to take advantage. Flipping her own chime around in her palm, she swung with all her might and connected with a dissonant clang.

Nobody moved as the echo faded. After what felt like ages, Cliope raised a shaking hand to her temple. There was a thin gash where the metal had connected, and though it appeared shallow, the wound abruptly spurted blood across her face. The older girl shrieked as the red raced out in torrents, bringing clergymen rushing into the room.

"What in the Gods is going on here?" one of them cried.

Another child pointed at Verna. "She struck her with her chime! She tried to murder her, she's evil!"

The clergyman glared at the little redhead in astonishment. "What have you done, Verna? Did you attack a fellow maiden?"

It all seemed like a dream. The girl glanced down at her chime, its golden bell bent and crumpled along one side, blood staining the rim. She watched a clergywoman drag the weeping Cliope from the chambers, small puddles trailing behind them. It was a wonderful dream. "She wanted to show me how to be a proper maiden," Verna explained calmly. "I thought healing wounds was part of it?"

The cleric shook his head in disgust. "You are mad. Your father will hear of this, I swear it!"

Despite the warm liquid streaming down her left eye, Verna fought back a smile. She cared not if her father knew. She cared not if she was unworthy. If she could not become a maiden, she would just have to be better than one.


	4. Childhood 4

**Childhood 4 – Monsters**

.

"What has gotten into you? Running away is one thing, but this? Assaulting a fellow maiden? Have you gone mad!?"

Verna glared at the floor as her father berated her, studying the dark stains from the day before. She had spent the entire morning scrubbing their sleeping quarters, but traces of Cliope's blood yet remained, pooled about her bedside like a mark of guilt. "She started it," the girl muttered.

"I don't care!" Klimt shouted. "You must be better than them! You are my daughter, you were meant to be a devout maiden! After all this time, all your training, you could not identify what miracle she was casting? You just stood there and let it happen?"

"She tricked me!" Verna shouted back, feeling slighted. Nobody had shown concern for her head wound, only Cliope's. The back of her skull was still swollen like a clump of mossfruit, and not a single cleric had offered her aid. "She said she was gonna show me how to cast a prayer, and—"

"You should have known," the Archdeacon repeated. "You heard the words, you should have known which prayer she was reciting. This is why you need to train harder! You dream of fighting monsters and demons, but you failed to even best another novice!"

"I did best her! I broke her head open and I won!"

"Stop this, Verna! Please! Why must you make things so difficult? You think you can do whatever you wish, without care for the consequences, but that is not the daughter I raised! My child is not selfish, and she is not willfully ignorant! You need to start seeing the world for what it really is!"

To his surprise, his daughter laughed miserably. "I need to see the world? Are you toying with me, father?"

Klimt winced despite himself. "Verna... you simply do not understand. You cannot imagine what horrors the land keeps hidden from us. The curse, the Dark, the cost of sacrifice... These are just words to you, ideas that you have not yet experienced. Believe me, child, you may hate it here, but this place is a haven compared to the rest of our kingdom."

"I don't care!" the redhead cried out. "I'm a prisoner, I hate it here!"

"You foolish girl!" the Archdeacon snapped, unable to control his temper. "Don't you see what I'm trying to do? I'm protecting you! The world is too dangerous for you, there are _monsters_ out there!"

 _"There are monsters in here!"_

She screamed at the top of her lungs, and her voice echoed across the vacuous chapel. The Archdeacon stared aghast at his daughter, his face ashen white. "What... what did you say?"

"There are monsters right here! It's you, it's all of you! You're all monsters!" Verna suddenly leapt from the bed and sprinted down the hallway, as her father desperately cried after her. His old legs were no match for her youthful stride, and she rounded the corner before the stationed guard could even react. She leapt onto a wooden platform behind him? causing the elevator to rise with a groan.

"Stop her, curse you!" her father ordered. The knight attempted to mount the rising lift, but his heavy armor weighed him down, and the girl stayed well out of reach. As the elevator climbed higher, the guard slid from the platform and slammed back onto the floor, nearly tumbling down the elevator shaft to certain doom.

The Archdeacon glared at the clumsy knight. "Stop the elevator!" he ordered. "Get her down from there!"

"I can't, your holiness," the guard's voice echoed inside his steel helm. "It has to reach the top before it can—"

"Then go after her! She's going to escape again!"

"Yes, your holiness!" The knight quickly jogged down the hall, rallying others to his side. Meanwhile, the Archdeacon clutched the robes of the nearest deacon and pulled him close.

"Send for the knight of thorns. Tell him to bring my daughter home. Now."

.

* * *

.

Verna listened to the sounds of chaos that emanated from the cathedral, her back pressed against a cold tombstone. They made such a fuss every time she did this, and the child would never understand why. "Just leave me alone," she muttered, but nobody was around to listen, save for the corpses buried deep beneath the earth.

In the distance, she could make out the glow of torchlights as search parties headed into the swamps of Farron. In truth, she wished she had tried this deception much sooner. The cathedral's graveyard was the perfect place to hide, a vast labyrinth of tombstones and obelisks. The clergy could search high and low throughout the swamps, but they would never find her. It was not a trick they would fall for twice, however, and she had to enjoy her freedom while it lasted.

Her musings were cut short as a shadow loomed over her. Verna jumped at the ominous figure blotting out the sun. She recognized the silhouette, and for a brief moment, she was terrified. However, as the knight of thorns hovered there, silent, the young girl relaxed and rose to her feet. She barely reached the warrior's waist, yet she stared straight into his spiked helmet without fear.

"Of course they sent you," she muttered. "You're the only one capable of finding me. Funny, is it not? The clergymen, in all their wisdom, cannot divine my location, but a simpleton like you never fails." She waited for a reaction, but the knight stood stoic as a statue. It irritated her. "Do you loathe me?" she pressed. "Do you hate having to fetch me over and over? A wicked warrior like yourself, running errands for the clergy, chasing after a stupid little girl... Do you not feel anything, you dumb brute?"

A cold wind carried with it the cackling of crows, and whistled through the knight's hole-riddled helmet as if it were hollow. The girl sighed in defeat and sunk amidst the gravestones.

"May I ask a favor of you?" her tone suddenly shifted. "Let me stay a while longer. I'll return soon, you need not carry me, just let me..." Verna trailed off, then stifled a giggle. "Of course. How silly of me. You do not hesitate out of pity. We are already home, and your duty complete. That's the reason, is it not?"

As the breeze rustled her blood-red hair, she prayed to the Gods to grant her wings, that she might fly away forever. "It's hopeless. I will never be rid of this cursed place. I'm no better off than you, a witless slave to the clergy, except I'm aware of my own worthlessness. Do you know how little you actually mean to them? The Archdeacons, the clergymen, the entire Church? They see you as a tool, a fancy suit of armor with nobody inside. They see you as a monster... but that's not true, is it? In the end, you're still just a person... aren't you?

"You know... my father claims to protect me, but I know better. I'm not afraid of them, I'm not! _They_ are the monsters, greedy and vile creatures! They're monsters for treating us like slaves. Their small world is no better than the one outside, anyways. There's no difference. They just want to believe in their stupid dreams of something better, something..."

She trailed off, and her eyes glazed over. As the moments passed, the wind died down, and Verna seemed to realize something. "Lord... Is father right? Am I blind? I boast of being brave, of facing monsters, yet here I am, still running. I flee from the monsters in my own home, as if the ones outside would treat me any better. How can I claim to be brave, when I... when I..."

The red-haired girl thought she might cry, but the tears never came. She stared past the tombstone before her, and knew she had to make a choice. Even though she lied to herself, there may still be time to prove her bravery. There was still a chance to defeat her demons.

She wiped her nose on the back of her fur cloak most ungraciously, then held her head as high as it would reach. "I suppose I've tricked them long enough. Might as well accept my penance." Verna stepped down from the tombstone, and the loose dirt crunched beneath her bare feet. As she started up the countless stairs of the cathedral, she paused and turned. The knight of thorns still had not moved, but tilted his head to watch her depart.

"Kirk? You are to escort me home, are you not?" He gave no reply, and she expected nothing less. "I would hold you to your duty." With a creak, the sinister warrior started after her, and shadowed the child as she marched to face the monsters.


	5. First Mission 1

**First Mission 1 – The Art of War**

.

Verna ducked behind the shield as a spear lunged towards her. Her left arm was numbed by the blow, but she kept her footing and swung the halberd in response. Its blade fell with deadly speed, but her opponent sidestepped at the last second, causing it to jar painfully off the stone tiles. The red-haired herald struggled to keep hold of the quivering shaft, but in that moment, she was left wide open. The spear-tip stabbed deep into her thigh, drawing a cry of pain. She raised her shield again as she fought to control the unwieldy weapon.

A steel boot kicked her guard aside. Verna stumbled backwards, arms flailing to stay balanced, then the spear shaft came down hard on her left collarbone. She gasped in pain as the shield clattered to the floor. The warrior checked her with a broad shoulder, and she was thrown onto her back with a resounding clank.

The enemy loomed above, spear raised, and she barred the halberd over herself in a pitiful defense.

"Halt!"

The warrior obediently lowered his weapon, and Verna let out an exasperated sigh. She sat up wincing as a cleric knelt beside her, chime in hand to heal her wounds. Across the stone plaza, a crowd of heralds stood smirking, reveling in her defeat, while Captain Brommand looked her over in disappointment.

"How many weapons have we tried, Verna?" he chastised. "Sword, spear, mace, halberd... Is there anything you might wield with even a grain of proficiency?"

The young woman grit her teeth, biting back a retort. "Apologies, Captain. I swear I'll try harder."

Brommand shook his head. "You try plenty hard enough. You need to fight smarter. That overhead swing left you wide open, whereas a horizontal sweep would have bought you some more time. Maybe you could've lasted another minute before failing again."

The other trainees snickered at his jab. They were gathered in the courtyard on a beautiful morning, with birds singing, the breeze blowing gently, and the sun shining down in all its glory. Verna hated it. All it did was serve to illuminate her continuous defeats. She glared at her opponent from behind a steel visor, while his was raised to reveal the arrogant smirk plastered on his handsome face. She despised the man named Calvert. He was youthful, strong, and gorgeous, with delicate features that were objectively prettier than her own. They had sparred dozens of times before, and each one ended in humiliation for the sole female herald of the cathedral.

As the cleric finished her prayer, Calvert called out, "Blocking a spear with a halberd, Verna? How do you see that working out for you?" This drew a few chuckles from his fellow men, which their captain made no attempt to silence.

Without a word, the red-head rose to her feet. She retrieved her heavy steel shield, then raised the halberd once more. The young man hefted his spear, still not lowering his helmet's visor.

Their captain bellowed across the courtyard. "Again!"

.

* * *

.

Her muscles were on fire as she made her way to the barracks. The cleric's miracles healed her wounds, but they could not remove every ache and pain, especially the damage dealt to her pride. She was not cut out to be a maiden, like the other women of their faith, and now she was proving worthless as a herald. It was once her childhood fantasy, fighting alongside the brave warriors of White, but now it had become a waking nightmare.

An echoing groan interrupted her self-loathing. She peered up into the lofty foyer of the cathedral and spotted one of the giants struggling to stand. At its feet was a Drang mercenary, dwarfed beside the massive creature, who battered the giant's heels without restraint. He drove his twin hammers into its stony skin repeatedly, until the brute returned to its duties with heavy hands, carefully spreading thick caulking along the base of the walls. The mercenary spit on the giant as he stepped aside.

Verna caught his gaze, and the balding warrior glared at her, a scar running over his right eye. "Is there a problem, lass?" he growled with a voice like gravel.

She met his stare evenly. "No, no problem. I just find your choice of weapons odd."

He snorted. "Is that so?"

"I'm sure it works fine on the giants, but sacrificing a shield for another weapon would leave you defenseless against a seasoned knight."

"Bah," the man spat again. "Only cowards hide behind their shields. The art of dual wielding has been a tradition of my land for ages, and we never had problems holding our own against any foe, big or small."

"And your distaste for the giants? Is that also tradition, or just personal?"

He arched his scarred eyebrow. "I thought that didn't bother you?"

"Hardly, but the giants were once servants of the Gods themselves. Surely they deserve a little of our gratitude."

"They deserve exactly what I give 'em. They're slaves, always have been, and should be treated as such. Here's a lesson for you. In this world, you're either a slave or the conqueror. That's it. Which one are you?"

Her back went stiff with indignation. "Well I'm certainly no slave. Remind me of your role again, sellsword?"

Surprisingly, a wry grin broke over his weathered face. "Look at the stones on you. Be glad you're the Archdeacon's girl, or I'd be inclined to teach you another lesson or two."

Now, Verna was practically bristling. "You think I get special treatment because of my father? I'm just as good or worse as anyone else. Besides, I doubt someone like you would have much to teach me."

His grin faded. "You got a big mouth, lass. I wager you wouldn't be so bold without the protection of your precious cathedral."

"Is that so?" Verna knew she should stop, but something urged her on. "Name a place. I'll gladly show you how bold I can be."

The mercenary silently appraised her, as if weighing the risk, then nodded. "The crossroads, then. The one before the old bridge. You know the place?"

"I've been there plenty of times. I haven't spent my whole life sheltered in here, you know."

"Good. Bring whatever weapons you prefer."

As he turned back to the lethargic giant, Verna called out, "What's the wager?"

The mercenary shot her another grin over his shoulder. "We'll figure that out when we get there."

.

* * *

.

The evening air was cool as she made her way to the meeting place. Burning braziers lit the shaded path from the cathedral, though Verna could have walked it by memory. As she stepped through the stone archway, she spotted the Drang warrior. He was resting beside a bonfire at the base of the great staircase, poking the charred remains of some forgotten undead with a broken stick.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show," he admitted as she approached.

Verna ignored him. She slid her kite shield onto her left arm, then raised the spear in her right. "Are we doing this or not?"

The mercenary chuckled as he stood. "Aren't you an eager one? Before we start, I'd suggest losing the spear and shield. That sword on your hip would suit you better."

The herald frowned at his arrogance. "I'll choose my own weapons, thank you."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself, lass."

As he unsheathed his twin hammers, Verna quickly stabbed with her spear, trying to catch the man off guard. The steel point tore into his cape as he leaned around the thrust, then caught the shaft beneath his arm. A hammer came down and snapped the wooden hilt in two, and he tossed the broken top to the ground.

Verna stared in outrage at the splintered weapon. "Well, go on," the warrior goaded her. "Pick it up, if it means that much to you."

She hesitated for a moment, then dove for the spear. As expected, the twin hammers flew towards her, and she raised her shield against them. She spun to deflect their weight, simultaneously drawing her Astora blade, which swept low at the man's feet. He jumped over the sword and slammed against her shield again, nearly bawling the herald over. Before she could recover, the hammers were inside her guard. With a single motion the shield was torn from her grasp, and fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.

Verna had no time to retrieve it before the maces were swinging again. She rolled back from the twin blows, then gripped her sword in both hands as she lunged forward, swiping upward with all her strength. The tip of the blade whistled past the mercenary's face, and for an instant, he looked concerned. Then, a boot caught her hard in the stomach, and the herald doubled over in agony.

"You got heart, that's for sure," the man lectured as she gasped for breath. "But your tactics are sorely lacking. You're not going to overpower me no matter how hard you try. You're a girl. It's just your nature. It's about time you accepted that."

"Damn you," Verna managed to get out.

"Don't blame the enemy for your weaknesses. You must know your limits, otherwise you will forever underestimate your opponent."

"You underestimate _me!"_ She was on her feet in a flash, lashing out with vigor. The mercenary leaned back as steel nearly severed his nose, but immediately responded by clubbing her over the helmet. She toppled onto her back while the sky reeled above.

"Know your limits!" the man repeated harshly. "What good is a shield if you lack the strength to wield it? What good is a helm if you can't evade? I could've crushed your skull had I the notion. Your armor is not a defense, it's a vice."

It took Verna a few moments to regain her senses. She sat up holding her throbbing head, though the truth of his words stung more. "You expect me to fight without armor?" she balked.

"Why not?" He held out his arms boldly. "Look at what I wear. Not a piece of steel on me, yet you haven't landed a single blow." She looked him over in reluctance. He wore only black cloth and studded leather, with white fur lining the neck of his cloak. "Armor means nothing if you can't hit the enemy. Now, get up."

Verna stumbled to her feet, sword wavering. "Take off your helmet. It only hinders your vision, and grants a false sense of security. Your armor as well." Hesitantly, the herald obeyed. She removed her helm and breastplate, then faced the mercenary again.

The man circled her like a wolf to its prey. "Stay on the defensive. Don't try to hit me, focus on not getting hit yourself." Before she could reply, the twin hammers were spinning towards her like a cyclone. She jumped out of range, but the warrior pressed his assault. She hated retreating, but was given no chance to retaliate.

Gradually, she began dodging without losing ground. The mallets swung relentlessly, inches from breaking her bones, but the girl nimbly evaded each strike. At last, the man halted his attack and grinned. "See?" he panted. "You aren't strong, but you are quick. You hardly broke a sweat."

Verna leered. "Can't say the same for you."

The mercenary laughed aloud in a thick baritone. "Exactly, lass. Know your strengths and weaknesses, but more importantly, know your enemy's. You must be aware of both to win. You may never be stronger than the men you fight, but you can be faster, and smarter."

She nodded in acceptance. "I'll keep that in mind. I'm going to fight back now."

"If you say so. Don't overdo it, though. This is a battle, not a race. You have all the time in the world to win."

The pair circled each other, both searching for the first opening. Suddenly, the man rushed her, flailing his hammers like a madman. Verna tried to strike back, but none of her attacks landed. She pushed aside the frustration and kept moving, using her sword to deflect the blows that got too close.

Finally, the man paused to catch his breath, and she saw her chance. She swung her blade overhead, but it screeched to a halt against his crossed hammers. Again, his boot thudded into her abdomen, and Verna cried out as she collapsed.

The mercenary remained silent as she bit back tears. Once she regained her composure, he spoke. "Still too eager. You have something to prove, I can tell. Give it up, lass. Stop trying to overpower me."

"It's not fair," the herald hissed between clenched teeth. "You have two weapons. There's never a moment when you're not attacking. I can't... I never have the chance to strike back."

"Just earlier today you were insulting my style, now you claim it's too much. You're right, though. It isn't fair, and it shouldn't be. Nobody is going to fight on your terms." As Verna continued to writhe on the ground, the mercenary's creased expression softened. "Here," he called out, "try this."

Something clattered beside her, and the girl opened her eyes to find a three-pronged dagger lying in the dirt. It was an odd weapon without edges, only sharp points. She picked it up with a frown. "What good will this do?"

"It can give you that opportunity you're looking for. It's a parrying dagger, meant to deflect an enemy's weapon rather than hurt him. Try catching the hilt between the points, but don't fight it. Turn into the weight to knock it aside, otherwise you'll lose the dagger and your advantage."

Verna stood, gripping the unfamiliar weapon in her left hand. "Okay," she breathed heavily. "Again."

The man was upon her in an instant. She jumped back as the hammers swiped past her face, then returned for a second strike. She rolled far to the side, staying out of range, determined to remain untouched. The mercenary leapt towards her, and both mallets slammed into the dirt. One of the hammers swung upward, and she tried to catch the hilt with her dagger, but the steel head glanced off it and nearly knocked the weapon from her grasp.

"Stop anticipating!" he roared. "Patience wins the war! Tire the enemy before you reveal yourself!" The hammer nearly crushed her ribs, and the herald stumbled backwards. The man pushed forward, giving her no chance to recoup, his hammers crashing down again and again. Verna could do nothing but backpedal to avoid his deadly blows.

His onslaught was unyielding. Though the mercenary sweat profusely, he never seemed to tire, and the girl's legs burned with constant motion. She bobbed left and right, narrowly escaping the heavy maces, always on her toes. Then, one of the swings got too close, and the following strike flew down at her unarmored head. On instinct, she lashed out with her dagger.

To her surprise, the hammer went wide, and the man wobbled for a brief moment. Her heart soared at her success, but it was over before she could react. He kicked out, forcing her to roll back in escape, then charged her once again.

Verna cursed herself for hesitating, but had no time for pity. She kept moving, weaving around the sweeping clubs, until one of them went wide. She immediately stabbed with her sword, and managed to pierce his left shoulder. His grizzled jaw clenched through the pain, then a hammer slammed into her forearm. The sword flew from her grip and landed point-down in the dirt, far from reach. The mercenary struck again, forcing himself between the herald and her weapon, denying her the chance to retrieve it.

"You attack when the enemy is ready, then hesitate when he's not!" A hammer clipped her hipbone, causing her to stumble. Verna dove to avoid being crushed by the second blow. "You tire yourself out instead of your foe! Be patient, be alert! This is life or death!" The man rushed forward, hammers arcing towards her skull. The herald nearly tripped over herself in constant retreat. Her enemy pursued her, swinging repeatedly, until an attack landed across her shoulder blades in mid-roll. She sprawled forward, landing flat on her stomach, and the warrior closed in for victory.

Verna spun around and threw the broken spear tip. The mercenary barely avoided the surprise attack, but did not halt his advance. Before he could reach her, however, he was pulled back; the spear had pinned his flowing cape to the ground.

The man glanced back for just a moment, but it was all she needed. The red-head was back on her feet, charging headfirst, and the mercenary lashed out to keep her at bay. The dagger flashed out, flinging the hammer aside, and this time she did not hesitate. She tackled the man bodily, sending them both sailing into the dirt.

The warrior grunted as the wind was knocked out of him. He tried to draw breath, but the dagger's pointed tip was pressed into the bulge of his windpipe. Verna glared down murderously, her eyes burning with defiance.

They lay there, silent, until the man dared to speak again. "Alright, lass," he rasped, a single drop of blood trickling from his throat. "You got me."

The herald did not move. She kept the dagger still, feeling his throat struggling beneath it. The warrior's chest rose shallow, unable to inhale without risking a worse injury, but his eyes remained dark and calm. Verna studied the man's hard-lined face, mere inches from her own, then finally said, "We never agreed on a wager."

That wry smirk returned, sharpening the creases of his skin. "Aye, that's true." Now the man was studying her, his shadowed gaze wandering over her features. Verna was well aware that she was not an attractive woman; her face was too long and sharp, her eyes squinted, her lips too flat and wide. Still, the warrior took her in without shame. "Name your price."

It was Verna's turn to smirk.

.

* * *

.

The heralds gathered in the stone plaza for their daily training. Verna felt an unusual sense of eagerness as she joined their ranks, one hand gripping the hilt of her new weapon. The training with the mercenary had continued late into the night, but oddly, she was not tired in the least. She recalled the lessons he had shown her, both in combat and beyond, and it was all she could do to suppress a smile.

Captain Brommand paced before his trainees, appraising them without expression. "Oberthen, step to and arm yourself," he commanded, and the herald hastily obeyed. "Verna, you too."

The red-head felt a slight reluctance. She had hoped to face the obnoxious Calvert again, but it was not her place to choose, so she stepped forward and addressed her superior. "Captain, sir. May I request a change of armaments?"

"Again, Verna?" The annoyance in his voice was readily apparent. "Will it really make a difference?"

"I believe so, Captain."

"Fine," Brommand sighed. "Take your pick."

Verna unclasped her helmet, then her breastplate. She lay them carefully aside before unsheathing her Astora sword and pronged dagger. "Ready, sir." She could hear the snickers of disbelief from behind, and a few of her peers whispered to each other.

"She can't be serious."

"Not even a shield? She's dead!"

"Two weapons, she looks like one of those Carim heathens."

The captain shot the men a withering glance, and the courtyard went silent. Then, he turned to the woman before him. "You sure about this, Verna? You've already lost plenty with a straight sword." She nodded silently, and Brommand stifled a groan. "Very well, then. Begin."

The words were no sooner spoken than Oberthen was upon her. She leapt aside, barely avoiding the piked halberd, and struck with her blade. It connected with his shield, but bounced gently off. Verna refrained from using her full strength, just as she had been taught. The polearm swung in a wide arc, and she rolled nimbly beneath it, then poked her opponent in his exposed side. It left a shallow wound, which only enraged the young herald.

He leapt high into the air as he lashed out. Verna ducked low, feeling steel tickle her short-cropped hair, then the halberd came down like a guillotine. She jumped back from the attack and thrust forward, her blade glancing off the heavy kite shield. Oberthen swung at her again, catching her arm and drawing blood, but she ignored the pain and kept focused. She backpedaled from the brash warrior, staying out of range of his assault. He struck mercilessly, but without her cumbersome armor, the woman proved to be too quick a target. His anger got the better of him, and Oberthen tossed the shield onto his back as he gripped the halberd with both hands. Verna tensed; she saw her opening.

With a warcry, the man charged, polearm braced beneath his arm. This time, his target did not move, and he tasted victory as he neared. He stabbed forward, but in an instant, the parrying dagger whipped out to catch the hilt of his halberd. His thrust was thrown wide, and he gasped in surprise as he teetered off-balance.

Suddenly, Verna was before him. She plunged her straight sword beneath his breastplate until it tore out his backside. Blood arced through the air as she kept pushing, slamming the man against the stone floor, his guts glistening in the morning sun. Oberthen's eyes went wide with shock, then finally, he screamed.

Verna raised her eyes to the crowd around her. They were not looking at her, though. Everyone was staring aghast at the shrieking man as he rolled about in a pool of his own blood.

Brommand finally broke the spell. "Cleric!" he barked, and the shocked woman rushed forward to heal the poor herald. As her chime rang out, the others found their voice, and all at once they chastised the victor.

"What was that!?" one shouted. "You could have killed him!" cried another. "It's just practice, for Gwyn's sake!" "We never harmed you in such—"

"Silence!" the captain commanded, and the heralds were hushed. "Did I give the order to halt? Verna defeated her opponent, for once, and you dare reprimand her? She did exactly as she was told. A gut wound will not kill a man for a long while, at any rate." He turned his steely gaze to the red-head and gave a curt nod. "Well done, Verna. You may return."

Her hands were shaking as she rejoined her fellow heralds, who stepped away from her. She didn't mind; in fact, she rather enjoyed it. Something slid down her cheek, and she realized that a splash of blood had struck her. She wiped it off with a gloved hand, then noticed Calvert, staring at her with a mix of horror and awe. It was better than she could have imagined.

For the first time in her training, Verna allowed herself a smile.


	6. First Mission 2

**First Mission 2 – Memories**

.

Steel flashed in the morning sun as the heralds did battle. Calvert thrust out with his spear, forcing Verna back, but he did not press the offensive. With shield raised, the young man circled the red-head cautiously, keeping a wary eye on the three-pronged dagger in her left hand. It had been over a dozen days since she had beaten Oberthen, but the victory remained fresh in everyone's mind.

Since then, Verna had continued to push herself, proving to her fellow trainees that she would no longer be easy prey. She still lost on occasion, but never made it easy for her opponent. The other heralds were quickly learning not to underestimate her, especially Calvert. He was still considered the best of their outfit, and would not relent to the woman's rapidly growing talent without a fight.

The spear jabbed again, nearly slicing Verna's wool cloak, and she countered with a sword strike. The blade clanged off her opponent's shield, then the wooden pole swept around in an arc. She rolled beneath it and stabbed upward, nearly gouging Calvert's midsection. The male herald leapt away, sweat glistening off his boyish face, which was unusually scrunched with exertion.

Verna approached slowly, anticipating his next attack. The spear lashed out, but only once, and Verna easily dodged. Neither warrior wanted to overplay their hand, both aware that a single mistake would be the end. They traded blows, the man blocking, the woman evading, never gaining any ground. Finally, Verna swung high towards his neck, and Calvert crouched low to avoid it. There was a resounding ring as his shield swung to the side, and Verna gasped as her blade was deflected. Calvert had used her own parrying technique against her, yet he was too far away to take advantage of the opening. By the time his spear rushed in, she was already rolling away.

Infuriated by his hesitation, the man took a mighty leap and closed the distance. The spear came down, but suddenly, Verna was facing him. Her sword flew straight as he neared, and it took all his strength to pull back and avoid being impaled. The tip of the blade rested just below his ribs, while his spearhead prodded against her collarbone.

An audible gasp rippled through the crowd. It was a draw.

"Halt," Captain Brommand commanded, and the combatants lowered their arms. They rejoined their fellow heralds, both panting from exhaustion, though neither had managed to wound the other. Verna's bony face broke into a grin, and reluctantly, Calvert returned it.

"A tie?" he whispered in disbelief. "What did you do with the real Verna?"

She chuckled despite herself. "Don't worry, Calvert. Technically you're still the best. You can cast miracles, after all."

His smile genuinely softened. "Have faith, you'll get it someday."

"Marth, Oberthen," their captain called the next pair, "Come forward."

Verna glanced over as the heralds brushed past, and caught Oberthen's eye. He looked her over with a hint of apprehension, but offered a courteous nod, which she graciously returned. It had taken six days for his wounds to heal, and even then, he had trouble standing straight. Despite this, he had offered Verna an apology on his first day back, which had taken her completely by surprise.

For a brief moment, Verna wondered if Calvert's words held some truth to them. In such a short amount of time, she had become an entirely new woman, one who actually garnered the respect of her peers. She found it ironic, actually; she may not be able to cast miracles, yet one had surely been bestowed upon her.

.

* * *

.

"We have a problem, brothers."

The Archdeacons sat cloistered within the inner chamber, seated around a wide table of oak. Klimt and Royce shared concerned glances as McDonnell announced their predicament, his stubby fingers steepled above his enormous bulk.

"I'm sure you've noticed that our converts have been dwindling as of late. Recently, the settlement of New Arston has ceased sending them altogether. We've also received no word from our evangelists. I fear the worst has happened."

Royce's wrinkled face was creased with worry. "You think the town has gone hollow?"

McDonnell shrugged. "What else could it be?"

"It's possible," Klimt nodded in agreement, "but surely our evangelists would have warned us? For the town to go completely silent is strange indeed. Perhaps... perhaps the Legion is involved?"

"The Legion has not been seen for quite some time," McDonnell reminded him. "We don't even know if they're still active. The truth is that we have no idea what has occurred in New Arston, and it's in our best interest to find out immediately. I propose we send a mission to investigate."

Royce bobbed his head eagerly. "Yes, yes. We need our converts. Our Saint needs his souls. If we falter now, everything we've worked towards will be for naught."

A frown darkened Klimt's demeanor. "True, but we should proceed with caution. Whatever fate has befallen the settlement may very well claim our mission. We could be sending them into a trap. Our numbers are fewer than ever, if we lose any more..."

"Brother," McDonnell interrupted, "if we do not resolve this mystery, we will lose much more than a few clergymen. Aldrich must become a Lord, no matter the cost. He is the only one who can save us now."

"And how fares our Saint, McDonnell? He has been unusually reclusive as of late." Klimt caught the wary look shared between his fellow Archdeacons, but kept his suspicions to himself.

"He is quite well," the hefty cleric reassured him. "He is simply preparing for the ritual, safe from any distractions. Surely you can understand that."

"Of course," Klimt played along. "It just seems odd that he has not communicated with us for some time. I would hardly consider us a distraction, after all."

"He still speaks to me," McDonnell said, "and will continue to do so until he is prepared to link the fire. I shall serve as his voice, and you two as his hands and eyes. We must all play our part, brothers."

A shadow passed over Klimt's expression. "Why only you? We have all sworn our service to Saint Aldrich. Have we done something to cause doubt?"

"Not at all," the cleric's plump cheeks spread into a smile. "He is confident in your faith, and knows that you will continue to have faith, regardless of his presence. Isn't that right, Royce?"

The Archdeacon had remained silent for some time, and seemed withdrawn in thought. "Oh, uh, yes. Of course. We mustn't question our Saint. His great vision shall guide us towards salvation. We need only follow."

"Quite right." McDonnell shifted in his seat, his growing obesity causing discomfort. "So, back to the matter at hand. Are we all agreed on the best course of action?"

"Indeed," Royce readily consented.

Klimt paused a moment before giving a slight nod. "Of course. But we must choose our missionaries carefully. We cannot afford any more losses."

McDonnell smiled warmly. "Certainly, brother. The safety of our Church is of utmost importance. We will make absolutely sure they are prepared for whatever awaits them. And, I know just the woman to lead them..."

.

* * *

.

The heralds gathered in the courtyard, same as every morning, but Verna could tell something was different. She watched as Captain Brommand conversed with the evangelist, Matron Medeline, under the shadow of a pillar, and wondered what they spoke of. In a moment, Brommand strode before his trainees to deliver the news.

"Heralds," he began boldly, "I am proud to announce that some of you will not be joining us for training today. The deacons have declared your first mission."

The crowd remained silent, though Verna could feel their elation thicken in the air around her. "Those of you who are chosen will set out for the town of New Arston," the captain continued. "Our Matron Medeline will be leading the expedition, and you are to obey her commands as if they were my own. The purpose of this mission is surveillance and information gathering. We know that something has gone wrong with the undead, but we don't know what. That will be for you to uncover."

He noticed the reserved glances between his trainees. "I know what you must be thinking. The town has most likely gone hollow, that much we can assume, but we also had fellow clerics among them who we've lost touch with. This may very well become a rescue mission, people. Root out the problem, help any survivors, and dispatch anything that threatens your team. Those are your orders.

"The following trainees will take the day to prepare. You will be departing first thing tomorrow morning. Now, listen up... Calvert. Lendrey. Verna."

Upon hearing her name, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. At last, she would have the chance to truly prove her worth. She couldn't resist stealing a glance at Calvert beside her, and saw the same eagerness glinting in his eyes. They shared a quick smile before returning to attention.

"Marth. Fordin. Percelle. You six will accompany the mission, and protect them at all cost. You will be their sword and shield against any and all dangers. Understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the chosen heralds chanted in union.

Captain Brommand nodded contently. "Then you are dismissed. May Gwyn watch over you, and godspeed."

.

* * *

.

Verna sat at her bedside, drawing a whetstone across her Astora blade in anticipation. She felt that today might be the longest day of her life. Tomorrow, her training would finally pay off. She tried to remind herself that this was a serious and potentially perilous mission, but still, she could not rid herself of excitement.

"Verna?"

Her father's voice broke her reverie. She turned to face the Archdeacon, who stood within the doorway of the barracks. It was an odd sight. She could remember a time when he had seemed imposing, regal, larger than life itself. Now, the old man barely filled the wooden frame, hunched over from age. Even with his tall conical mitre, he was nearly a full head shorter than his daughter.

"Hello, father," she greeted him blankly.

"I heard you were chosen for tomorrow's mission. I came to wish you farewell."

Verna returned to sharpening her sword. "My thanks. I'm sure we will return soon enough with an answer for the deacons."

Klimt wrung his hands behind his back, out of sight. "It could be dangerous. We have heard nothing from the village in quite some time. I... I wanted to make sure you were adequately prepared."

"I am. I have faith in my fellow heralds, and in myself. We'll be fine."

Klimt nodded hesitantly. "Yes, of course. You have trained well." As the silence stretched on, he reached into his robes and withdrew a small object. "I have something for you, in case you encounter resistance. It will aid you on your journey."

Verna looked back with a skeptical frown. "The Church has already provided us with equipment."

"Yes, I know, but... Well, it couldn't hurt to take along. Consider it a parting gift from your old man."

He approached quietly and placed the item upon her bedsheets. It was a small golden ring, with a model of a sword stretching from its engraved circlet. Verna only stared at it dubiously.

"It is one of Lloyd's blessed rings," Klimt explained.

"Lloyd?" Verna asked incredulously. "None even speak his name anymore. What good will this do?"

Klimt waved her doubts aside. "The Allfather was once a great man, one of the founders of our faith. The Way of White would be nothing without him, no matter what those fools from Carim might think. This token holds great power, Verna. It will bolster the tenacity of your own strikes, make them stronger than they already are. Please, accept it?"

She stared a moment longer, then returned to her blade without touching the ring. "Very well."

Klimt hovered over her, the ghost of a smile touching his aged features. "Thank you. I... I'll see you when you return."

With that, he departed, and Verna finally lowered her whetstone. She gave the ring another glance, then snorted in disdain and began packing.

.

* * *

.

The heralds gathered in the foyer of the cathedral with the rest of their mission. As Verna joined their numbers, she was surprised to see that Cliope was among those chosen. The priestess avoided the red-head's gaze, apparently still uncomfortable with their troubled history. Verna recalled the night where she had split the young girl's head open, but quickly banished the thought from her mind. They were part of the same team now, and she would be sure to treat the cleric with due respect, regardless of how obnoxious she had been in her early years.

Matron Medeline stood before them, surveying her charges with a toothy smile — six heralds, three clerics, and herself to lead them. "Well, children," the evangelist began, "I trust that you have prepared yourselves for the journey ahead? Splendid! Let us be off, then. No reason to dilly-dally."

They promptly filed into rank and headed to the entrance. As they went, Verna caught sight of the Drang mercenary again, still driving the giants into action. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then he turned away and continued his thankless work. A twinge of regret stung her breast, and she faced forward before it could spread. The two had not shared a single word since that night they met on the crossroads. She realized she had never even learned the man's name.

Forcing her feelings aside, Verna stared around at the grand cathedral, bidding it a silent farewell. It would be many days until any of them would see it again. Despite the harsh memories she had formed within these cold walls, it was still her home, and she would miss it.

Then, something far above drew her attention, a familiar figure standing on one of the upper balconies. It was Kirk, the Church's faithful knight. She studied the ominous warrior without emotion, remembering all the times she had hid from him in her younger years. He had been such an enigma back then, a focus for her childish fantasies. She had spent many nights dreaming of becoming a maiden, with her valiant knight of thorns fighting by her side. Now, she was older, and wiser. She knew better than to entertain such foolish notions. He was a wretched undead, a soulless shell that followed naught but the will of the deacons. They had never shared anything beyond their solemn duty to the Church.

Facing ahead, Verna returned her thoughts to the mission before them. She was not a child anymore. Now was the time to prove that, and her worth as a herald. She swore she would make the Church proud, no matter the cost. As one, the party marched through the cathedral doors and into the shining dawn.


	7. First Mission 3

**First Mission 3 – Sacrifices**

.

The band of clergymen trekked on along the winding footpath. They were in the lands of Farron now, well beyond the sanctity of the Church's domain. The heralds cast wary glances at every strange sound, as if expecting an ambush at any moment. It occurred to Verna that most of them had never set foot past the cathedral grounds, and she suppressed a flicker of pride. In a sense, she was the best prepared of them all, due ironically to her disobedience.

The Matron, of course, was the exception. She led her charges resolutely, that stone-set smile fixed upon her fleshy cheeks. A spiked mace was slung over her broad shoulders, its handle nearly as long as the woman herself. Verna marveled that the evangelist could wield the hefty weapon at all. She had never seen Medeline in battle, but a part of her hoped she might get the chance.

A snapping twig caused Percelle to jump, and the herald snorted to hide his embarrassment. "These woods gives me the chills," he muttered. "It's like the trees are watching us."

"They're only trees," Calvert replied, "nothing more. I'm concerned with what lurks behind them."

"Who knows what manner of beasts call this wretched place home," Fordin spat disdainfully. The brawny warrior had his shield and spear at ready, gripped tight in tense fists.

"I heard there are creatures that can turn you to stone with a mere breath," Cliope said in a near whisper. The young cleric seemed uneasier than anyone, and welcomed the chance to talk her troubles away.

Percelle snorted. "Sounds like a tale to scare children at bedtime."

"They're called basilisks," Verna interjected, "and I assure you, they're quite real. Fortunately they stick to the swamps, so we shouldn't have to worry about them."

The wiry Percelle gave her a snide grin as they passed beneath a crumbling stone archway. "Well, you'd know best, Verna. Always running off to splash around in the muck."

"I never understood why anyone would willingly visit that disgusting cesspool," Lendrey chimed in.

"She's probably faced more dangers than either of you," Calvert admonished them. "Verna was out there with the monsters while you two were still clinging to your mothers' gowns."

Percelle looked sheepishly to the ground. "Easy, Cal. It was just a joke."

The Matron abruptly turned to them with a raised hand. "Hush now, children," she commanded. "We are in another's territory. Mind your manners, but stay on guard. You can never quite tell what this one will do."

Despite her grin, her ominous words hung over the party. They glanced anxiously around the ancient ruin with hands on their armaments. As Verna wondered just who Medeline spoke of, a dark shadow fell over her, and she spun in alarm as a looming apparition materialized out of nowhere.

A cackle arose from beneath the wispy figure's oversized hat. "Oh dear," he rasped. "Does the Church think so poorly of me? And here I was, ready to extend my hospitality."

Medeline stepped forward, welcoming the hideous specter with open arms. "No, great sage! My words were in jest, of course. I was merely giving these young ones a fright is all."

The sorcerer raised his head to reveal a macabre billed mask, eerily illuminated by the shimmering crystal ball in his clutches. His glass goggles scanned the pallid faces before him as he chortled again. "I dare say it worked, madam."

"We seek passage through these lands," the Matron continued. "I assume our agreement still stands?"

"But of course," the sage dipped his enormous hat. "And I do hope you'll give my regards to Archdeacon McDonnell. The contributions from Irithyll have proven invaluable to our research."

"He will be honored to hear it, I'm sure. The Old Gods still grant their blessings to the faithful, even after all these years. I pray you always find favor in them."

"Indeed." The sage lowered his brim cryptically. "Although, there are some who yearn for their favor a little too much. The moon's influence has caused some strange happenings in these lands."

Medeline tilted her head. "Is that so?"

The ghostly sorcerer floated around the gathered group, peering into his glistening orb. "An affliction has spread through the former acolytes of the Legion. Those who gorged themselves on wolfsblood have become beasts themselves, trapped in a horrid state between man and wolf. I suspect the moon's presence may be spurring their transformation, but fortunately, we live in a land where the sun always shines. I am loathed to think what they might become should they complete their metamorphosis."

The Matron stroked her hairy chin in thought. "Why does the Legion not cull these creatures? I thought they looked after their own flock."

"Ah, but the Watchers have been curiously absent for some time now. Last I heard, they had set off for Carthus in search of some self-proclaimed lord. Alas, that seemed ages ago, and we've not received word since. Who can say what fate befell them?"

"That is unfortunate news."

"Indeed. There are some acolytes who took it upon themselves to battle the lycanthropes, but their numbers are too few. Even an undead legionnaire can only die so many times before he forgets his duties."

The Matron nodded curtly. "We shall keep a sharp eye out for these fiends. I'm sure it's nothing the Church cannot handle."

That beakish face cocked sideways in a curious manner. "As you say, madam. I only thought it courteous to warn you. The lands of Farron are not what they used to be."

Medeline gave a half-bow. "Duly noted, good sage. We will be ready for whatever evil awaits. I thank you again for entertaining us, but we really must be on our way. Our own duties need tending to, you understand."

"Of course, Matron. May the sun shine upon your journey."

The evangelist turned to the others, who had barely moved a muscle during their entire conversation. "Come along now, children," she ordered, and led them off into the crumbling ruins. As they departed, Verna could not help but glance back at the creepy sorcerer, and though the mask concealed his face, she could have sworn he was watching her as well.

.

* * *

.

The fortress was surprisingly inhabited despite its decrepit state. Throughout the halls, gaunt scholars hunched over tables strewn with books, looking up only briefly as the troupe passed by. The heralds were wholly unsettled by their sunken eyes and shriveled faces, recognizing the signs of the undead curse. However, the sages quickly lost interest in them and returned to their studies, allowing them to pass through unfettered.

The young warriors breathed easier once they were beyond the ruins. Percelle let out a low whistle, his confidence returning now that he was out of earshot of the hollows. "Damned undead every which way you look," he grumbled. "These are surely dark times we live in."

For once, no one berated the pessimistic soldier.

The company continued their march along the edge of Farron woods, weaving carefully between the makeshift wooden idols that cluttered the area. Although the others loathed these cursed lands, Verna still found it beautiful in its own way. The towering trees created a canopy that blotted out the sky, with rays of sunlight piercing its lush foliage like brilliant spears. She could only imagine what it must have been like before the poison tainted its waters and plagued its inhabitants with disease.

"Matron?" Cliope eventually spoke up. "Who... or what... was that thing?"

"That _thing_ is the Crystal Sage," Medeline replied scoldingly, "an esteemed scholar and valued ally of the deacons. He has spent centuries studying the soul arts, and accomplished more than most people could in several lifetimes. You would do well to give him your respect."

"I don't mean to offend," Calvert interrupted, "but why in the world does he wear that ghastly mask?"

"With all due respect, his appearance offended me!" Percelle quipped. "I couldn't even tell if he had legs underneath that robe. Not that I'd care to look..."

"Silly children," the Matron sighed, "you are overlooking the silver lining here. If what he says is true, and the Legion is no longer active, then our task will be considerably easier. A handful of hollows are no match for the might of the Church. I imagine we'll be returning home in no time at all."

"Sure, as long as you discount all this walking," Percelle grumbled.

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Medeline chuckled. "I wouldn't make you travel by foot all the way to New Arston. Our ride should be just up the road."

.

* * *

.

Klimt's knuckles were white beneath his lengthy sleeves. "Stop skirting the question, McDonnell. Did you know she would be among those chosen?"

The obese Archdeacon spread his hands in a show of innocence. "I truly don't understand your concern, dear brother. What's the point in training our heralds if they are to never serve their duties?"

"But why now? Why this mission? There are countless other ways she could aid in the Church's work. Why would you send her blind into what could very well be a catastrophe? She's never even seen a real battle!"

"You must trust in Captain Brommand's decision, Klimt. I ordered him to pick six of our best warriors, and that is exactly what he did. If anything, you should be overjoyed that Verna was granted such an opportunity."

Klimt turned away, not wanting his fellow Archdeacon to see his quivering lip. He knew that McDonnell's response was perfectly reasonable, but he did not care. He knew that he was being emotional, irrational even, but that did not sate the discomforting lump that sat within his stomach.

"Brother," McDonnell took on an appeasing tone, "forgive me for speaking bluntly, but your concern for your daughter has always been overbearing. Verna is no longer a petulant child, but a capable herald. It is due time she proved her worth to our Church. Don't you agree?"

After a moment, Klimt forced himself to nod.

"Excellent," the Archdeacon clasped his hands in approval. "At the very least, I can promise that you will be alerted the instant we hear word from Matron Medeline. And don't forget our adage, brother — the most terrifying things in the Dark are the ones we imagine. Trust in our own. Verna is in good hands."

Klimt nodded again, then exited the chamber without another word. As he departed, he passed a pair of deacons whose girth had begun to challenge that of McDonnell's. They both smiled broadly in passing, but he could not return the gesture in his distraught state. He was well aware that his concern for his only child could border on the unreasonable, but this was different. This was not the vice-like anxiety that gripped his temples whenever she disobeyed him, whenever she deliberately placed herself in harm's way just to spite him. This was a cold, primal, inexplicable dread that welled within his breast like a torrential flood. This was something he had never experienced before in all his long years.

There was only one thing that could possibly assuage his fears now. With a shivering breath, he headed for the upper level of the cathedral.

.

* * *

.

There was a knock at the door. "Enter."

The deacons slipped quietly into the room and bowed graciously to their leader. "You wished to see us, Archdeacon?"

McDonnell nodded, his pudgy fingers steepled before him in deep thought. "It seems our time has come sooner than expected, and in such unfortunate circumstances, no less. With our sacrifices growing scarcer by the day, Saint Aldrich believes that the ritual must be carried out immediately, before the opportunity passes. I assume you understand what this means?"

The deacons bowed again. "Of course, your holiness. Our Lord must have his fill of souls, one way or another."

"Good. Begin preparations at once, and remember, discretion is of utmost importance. Spread the word to our brethren, but do not let the others catch wind of our intent. It would be quite unfortunate if they were to flee. We may preach the same faith, but not all of us are ready to make the ultimate sacrifice."

The deacons gave one final bow, then left McDonnell alone with his musings in the damp chamber. "The fire fades, and a Lord must sit the throne," he whispered to no one. "So it is written, and so it shall be. The new age is finally at hand..."

.

* * *

.

Klimt cast a furtive glance over his shoulder as he approached the iron-wrought gate. Though only a chosen few were allowed access to this part of the cathedral, he nevertheless felt a creeping suspicion following close behind. However, there was naught but shadows at his back, so he produced his key and unlocked the outer cage.

The heavy golden doors creaked open as the Archdeacon entered the chamber. His presence was greeted by the gentle giggling of infants, all resting soundly in their cradles. He stepped past softly, so as not to disturb the heavenly children, and gave each a tender smile as he approached the canopied bed at the other end of the room.

The sight of her never ceased to fill him with reverence. Eyes wide, he knelt at the feet of the radiant goddess and beseeched her.

"Divine Mother, forgive me. I come before you seeking guidance once again. You have already done so much for us... for me... but still my dreams are filled with dread. I try to keep the faith, to follow the path of our Lord, but... Oh, dear goddess, something is horribly wrong. I know not what it is, but I can feel it in my bones. I fear for our Church, for all of us. I believe something terrible is about to begin."

With eyes shut tight, Klimt grasped the holy symbol that hung around his neck for strength. "I am ashamed to ask any more of you. You've already given me the greatest gift I could ever hope for, but it is because of her that I stand here now. Please, I beg of you... keep Verna safe..."


	8. First Mission 4

**First Mission 4 – Ambush**

.

As the heralds scaled a serpentine trail that twisted up the hillside, they spotted three emaciated figures ahead. Their hands drifted warily to their weapons, but the Matron continued to march unperturbed, so they followed her example. When they drew closer, their suspicions were confirmed. These men had long since gone hollow.

The pitiful things were dressed in rags that clung to their skeletal frames, and leaned wearily on crude wooden pikes. One lifted his gaze as they neared, staring at the troupe with vacant eye sockets, and Verna thought for a moment that he might attack. However, the undead simply hung his head again, returning to whatever dismal thoughts drifted through a corpse's brain.

Calvert glanced back as the party rounded the next bend, discomfort marring his elegant features. "They must be the Legion's acolytes," he muttered under his breath, as if he might somehow offend the soulless wretches. "How far the mighty have fallen..."

"They don't deserve pity," the stalwart Fordin said, keeping his eyes forward. "They're undead. Let 'em rot."

As they approached a crumbling fortress at the peak of the hill, Verna noticed another herald, Marth, glaring at Fordin's back. He was a sullen man, and had not spoken a word since their departure, but he suddenly looked like he wanted to rebuke his companion's callous remark. Then, Marth caught her staring, and quickly averted his gaze back to the dirt beneath their feet.

Once they were within the circular ruin, greeted by the sight of a warm bonfire, Medeline turned to her charges. "It would appear our ride is running late," the evangelist sighed, her smile unfaltering. "We will make camp for now. Lendrey, Marth, you two will have first watch. The rest of you may break out the rations."

While the pair of heralds took their posts at either entrance, the others gathered around the bonfire and began digging out their food. Most of them had little more than dried strips of salted jerky, which they tore into with enthusiasm. Cliope took out a handful of mossfruit and picked sparingly at it.

"I don't know how any of you can eat that stuff," she said, eyeing their ravenous hunger with a hint of disdain. "I don't even know what it is, but it doesn't look appetizing."

"It's probably just dog or something," Percelle mumbled around his food. "Besides, it just tastes like salt. Here, try some."

The cleric scrunched her nose as he tried to hand her a piece. "Ew, no thanks." She promptly turned to her fellow clerics as Percelle tore off another strip with a grin.

.

* * *

.

"Marth?"

The warrior looked up with a troubled frown, his brow taut, but he relaxed as he recognized Verna standing beside him. "Sorry," he excused himself gruffly, "got lost in my own head."

"Understandable," Verna replied. "This trip has us all worn out. Lucky for you, it's my turn to take watch. You should go eat, get your energy back."

Marth gave a half-hearted shrug. "Not hungry, but I wouldn't mind resting my feet. Thanks."

As he turned to join the others, Verna spoke up again. "Hey... If something's troubling you, you can always talk to the Matron. She's a surprisingly good listener, you know."

That dour look darkened the herald's face again. "What makes you say that?"

She shrugged. "Just seems like something's on your mind."

"It's nothing I can't handle," he said curtly. "Don't worry yourself over it."

"I'm not saying that out of the kindness of my heart, Marth. You were supposed to be on lookout duty, but you didn't even hear me come up behind you. If I were an enemy, I could have cut you down before you knew what hit you. This mission requires all our focus, so if something's distracting you, you should deal with it. For all our sakes."

He seemed taken aback by the directness of her reprimand, but eventually, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "You're right. I probably should talk to somebody... the Matron's already heard my complaints, though, and it's not like I can talk to any of you about it."

"Try me."

Marth raised a bushy eyebrow. "What?"

"I said try me," Verna repeated. "I'm not going to judge you. It's our first mission, I'm sure everyone's worried one way or another."

"That's not it," he shook his head. "I'm not worried about the mission. It's... it's not something you could understand. And trust me, you _will_ judge me."

"Well you won't know until you say it," the red-head shot back. "Just spit out, Marth. What's wrong?"

The tall herald glanced back to the rest of their team as if he were seeking an escape, or perhaps making sure they weren't in earshot. "It's the way the others act. The way they talk. They're just novices, all green. They have no idea what the world is really like... what some of us have had to sacrifice to keep others safe."

Verna nodded thoughtfully. "I can see where you're coming from. I honestly feel the same. Most of them have never set eyes past the graveyard of the Cathedral. Hell, Percelle didn't even know what a bloody basilisk was."

To her surprise, Marth allowed himself the ghost of a smile. He appraised the younger herald with a hint of respect. "Verna, I want to ask you something. What do you think of the undead?"

This caught her off-guard. "The undead? Well... I'm not sure. I mean, they're just ghosts, really, or rather the opposite. Nothing but a husk of their former selves, trying to fill the emptiness with the souls of others..." She trailed off as Marth's expression grew sullen again.

"Yeah," he muttered. "That's what everyone thinks. No one remembers that the undead have served our Church for centuries, long before any of us were even born. It's... it's disheartening how easily they've forgotten."

For a brief moment, Verna thought back to the knight of thorns looming over her, glaring down with his iron-wrought gaze, forever chasing after the troublesome child. She quickly pushed the memory aside, but not before an unwelcomed chill ran down her spine. "That's true, though I'm not sure if that changes what they are. They've already died. They aren't human like us."

Marth snorted loudly. "I knew you wouldn't understand. Thanks anyways, Verna."

As he turned to leave again, she grabbed his shoulder. "Wait. Explain it to me. I want to understand, honestly."

He didn't look at her, but he didn't pull away, either. After a moment of silence, he said, "You can't. Honestly. You don't know what it's like until it's upon you, until it's too late."

Verna's hand fell away on its own. "Marth... what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if you _were_ an enemy, and you cut me down, I'd just come back to haunt you."

Finally, it hit her like a cudgel to the gut. "Merciful Gwyn... You're one of them?"

"Yeah, one of them. Not one of you."

"Marth, I'm sorry... I didn't mean it like that, I just... I had no idea..."

"Nobody does," he sighed, casting a weary glance to the others gathered around the bonfire — a bonfire that burned with the bones of an undead, just like himself. "You all look at me as one of the crowd, just another trainee trying to earn his place. None of you have any idea what I've sacrificed to serve our Lord."

Verna struggled to find a proper response. "When did it happen?" she eventually blurted out, immediately realizing how rude it must have sounded. However, the older herald showed no reaction.

"A while ago," he said, eyes clouding over. "I'm not really sure. I don't... I can't remember how it happened. I just remember waking up in the Cathedral, with the deacons watching over me. This was back when we still had Fire Keepers, of course, back before they started wilting away like snipped buds. I thought I was scared, then, when I first woke up. I had no idea how terrifying my false life would become."

"I can't imagine..." she tried to console him, though she knew the words rang hollow.

"No, you really can't. This world was once full of life, you know. The land flourished with the Fire Keepers, with bountiful souls... and humanity. But now the Fire Keepers have all but faded, and they took the last of our humanity with them." He placed a hand over his heart, as if it pained him. "What I hold within me now... I'm not sure if I can ever replace it. And that frightens me more than anything. The next time I die, I may lose what little remnant of self I have left, forever."

Verna fought to regain her composure. "Marth, that's horrible... and you're right, I can't imagine what it must be like. But I want you to know, this doesn't change how I think of you. No matter what, you will always be one of us. Always."

The weathered creases around Marth's eyes finally softened. "Thank you. That means the world to me, truly. It felt good to finally get that off my chest." He started to leave, then glanced back at her over his shoulder. "Oh, and Verna? If you speak a word about this to anyone, I swear I'll eat your soul."

She stared aghast at the stoic knight, until the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, and she let out a nervous half-chuckle. "Curse you, Marth," she swore with a shake of her head.

He shrugged. "Already am."

Suddenly, a feral shriek shattered the still air. In an instant, both heralds had their weapons drawn, staring intently down the road before them, though not a thing stirred along the beaten trail. Even the hollowed acolytes were nowhere to be seen.

"Regroup," Marth ordered, never taking his eyes off the tree line. "Something wicked is coming."

.

* * *

.

Everyone was on their feet, swords and spears at ready. They had formed a tight circle around the three clerics, who huddled with their Matron around the bonfire, jumping at every leaf flittering in the wind. Verna and Marth fell into formation seamlessly, keeping a cautious eye on the shadows that shifted beyond the broken stone walls.

"What the devil was that?" Percelle said in a near-whisper.

"Hush, child," Medeline responded, lest anyone else voiced their fears. "Stay on guard. Be ready for anything."

They stood there, still as statues before the crackling flames, and the forest remained uncomfortably silent. Verna gripped her sword-hilt with white knuckles, afraid to relax for even a moment. Then, she saw it — a pair of gleaming red eyes watching them from the shaded woods.

Before she could call out, a savage roar shook their spirits, and a monstrous creature bounded over the wall. It looked like a hollow, but it was more hideous than any hollow Verna had seen before. Its greying mane lay matted against a gaunt face, with rotted teeth sharpened into fangs. Low-hanging arms ended in fierce claws, each one longer than her dagger. As the creature charged the ashen-faced heralds, Verna felt her knees weaken at its imposing size. It stood nearly twice as tall as any man, even with its back arched like a bristling wolf.

The beast crashed into their ranks with all its weight, nearly trampling right over the cowering heralds. "Hold the line!" Medeline shouted over the frenzied howls. "Pikemen! Strike back!" Despite their fears, the heralds' training took command, and they responded diligently to their Matron's orders. As the monster thrashed wildly at their shields, Fordin and Calvert thrust out with spear and halberd, piercing through its bowels. However, the wounds only fueled the creature's rage. With one swipe, it lifted Fordin by his spear shaft and sent him tumbling overhead, throwing him far beyond their shield wall, his weapon splintered uselessly.

The beast pounced upon the lone herald, digging tooth and nail into his exposed backside. Fordin screamed into the dirt as it rent his flesh apart, and Percelle took a step to aid him. "Hold!" the Matron bellowed again, forbidding them to intervene. "Protect the clerics!"

"It's tearing him to pieces!" Percelle cried, though his feet remained planted. Then, Medeline ordered, "Down!" and the heralds instinctively dropped to one knee, shields still raised. "Clerics, attack!"

As one, the priestesses rang their chimes, then thrust them forward as orbs of light raced from their outstretched hands. All three spheres burst against the monster, causing it to stumble away from the fallen warrior. It instantly spun on the group with a primal scream and raced towards them again. Without thinking, Calvert raised his halberd, and the beast impaled itself on the sharpened tip, which burst out its back in a spray of thick blood.

Still the creature fought, its claws swiping dangerously close to Calvert's face, but he held fast against the danger. Verna yearned to break rank and hack away at the monster, but just as the thought came to her, more howls rose from beyond the walls. To her horror, another of the hideous beasts leapt down, then another. As one, they rushed towards the ring of heralds, and she felt her heart plummet to the soles of her boots.

"Stand strong, warriors!" Medeline rallied her charges, and in one swift motion, she unslung her mace and brought it down in a sweeping arc. The spiked end obliterated the first monster's skull, and it finally stopped struggling as pieces of bone and brain matter splattered across Calvert's astonished face.

The other beasts collided against their shields. One of them sent Lendrey somersaulting through the air; their wall was broken on both sides. The exposed clerics stared up in horror as the gnashing maws bore down on them. Unable to hold back, Verna gripped her sword in both hands and thrust it into the fiend's ribs, and it rounded on her with a shriek. There was a flash of yellow claws, then she was sprawling onto her back, three gouges dug into her breastplate.

While the others battled the lone monster, Verna stared up in horror at the approaching abomination, its eyes shining a bloody crimson. As it raised a taloned hand, Marth suddenly pounced onto its back, driving his spear straight through the creature's throat. Its howls became wet gurgles as it thrashed wildly, trying to throw the herald off, and Verna took the opportunity to attack. She screamed as barbarically as the monsters as she slashed through its stomach, releasing a tangle of wet entrails and overwhelming stench.

The back of its hand struck her across the face, and Verna stumbled away as the creature wrapped both claws around Marth's shoulders. With a mighty heave, it smashed the herald head first into the ground, then lifted him bodily to slam him again. Verna went pale as she watched her comrade go limp, and was on her feet in an instant. Before she could move, the monster flung the other herald at her like a ragdoll, and she reflexively tried to catch the heavy man. As she fell to one knee, she realized it was a mistake. The beast rushed at them both, spear still jutting out of its neck.

At that moment, a greater commotion came into earshot, even louder than the battle. Both heralds and monsters turned as a wagon barreled into view, bouncing on rickety wheels as if it would overturn at any second. Four rotted, undead canines yelped as they pulled the cart, and at its helm was a plump woman with a pointed hat. Even in the midst of combat, Verna could not help but stare at the peculiar scene.

As the wagon rolled into the fortress, the woman reigned in hard, bringing it to a creaking stop. At the same time, she leapt from her seat with sword in hand. To Verna, it looked like an oversized butcher's knife. With the creature distracted, the Matron swung her spiked mace, caving in its chest. The driver charged forward and slashed at the stunned beast, cleaving its head clean off its shoulders. Then, without pause, she rushed through the ranks towards the last monster.

A clawed hand came down at her, but in a flash, she took off its entire arm, then followed with another strike, slicing it open collar to hip. From behind her, the heralds jabbed with spears and halberds, until at last the monster collapsed, blood gushing from its hole-riddled body.

.

* * *

.

"About time you showed!" Medeline shouted, still grinning ecstatically. "Clerics, round up! Tend to the wounded!"

Verna immediately looked to the immobile herald still cradled in her arms. As fear rushed back into her breast, she tore at his chin-strap and threw the crumpled helmet aside. His eyes stared black glossily, and his skull had fractured wide open, streaming warm blood over his face. "Marth," she tried to shout, but her voice caught in her throat. "Marth, damn you! Say something!"

He blinked. "My head hurts..."

She nearly laughed in relief. "You bastard. You scared the life out of me." Marth tried to sit up, but Verna forced him back to the ground. "Don't you dare. Wait for the clerics to do their job."

As if on cue, Cliope rushed to his side and began reciting her healing miracle. Verna stepped back as the golden light surrounded them, then turned to leave, realizing there were others who needed aid.

In the middle of her chants, Cliope reached out and grabbed Verna's hand. "Thank you," she said hoarsely, eyes wide with gratitude. Verna squeezed back, nodded, and left her to her duties.

Despite being tossed like a sack, Lendrey was back on his feet, exclaiming surprise that he was in one piece. Somehow, Percelle hadn't even been touched. The unfortunate Fordin, however, still lay facedown in the dirt, his robes soaked through with blood. He screamed profusely as the other two clerics knelt by his side, combining their miracles in an attempt to heal his grievous injuries.

Calvert was sitting on the ground, his shield and halberd strewn to either side. He stared blankly at nothing, face still drenched in gore. Verna crouched beside him and put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you alright?"

The herald nodded wordlessly, stuck in a stupor. She gripped him tighter and gave him a gentle shake. "You're okay, Calvert. Maybe this will teach you to start wearing your visor down, eh?" A weak moan escaped him.

While the troupe gathered themselves, Medeline approached the driver of the cart. "Quite the entrance," she remarked. "I'd almost think you planned this whole thing."

The woman planted her flat blade into the ground. "'Pologies, Matron. Took me a while to fix up m'cart. It ain't meant for carryin' warm bodies, as ya know."

"But of course."

"I hope this don't affect our 'greement?"

The Matron produced a burlap bag with a stained bottom. "Not at all. This should be enough to tide you over."

The driver grabbed the sack and peered eagerly inside. As she beheld its contents, a smile touched her cheeks. "M'thanks, Matron. Tell your heralds to pile in once they cleaned up. We've still a ways to go 'fore New Arston."


	9. First Mission 5

**First Mission 5 – All Hollowed**

.

Their ride was anything but accommodating. Metal brackets along the wagon's sides had stabbed into their backs with every bump, forcing the company to huddle together in the middle most uncomfortably. The iron-barred walls made Verna feel as if she were a prisoner, and she was certain the others shared her sentiment. Each one of them wore a look of sullen resignation, though none wore it quite so well as Percelle.

"I wish the Matron had warned us how torturous this ride would be," he moaned. Unlike them, Medeline had taken a seat up front with the enigmatic driver of the cart. "I'd rather have walked. This is murder on my poor back!"

"Bollocks to your back," Fordin growled, clutching at his bandaged abdomen. "You weren't nearly rent in two by those monsters. They didn't so much as scratch your pretty face."

This brought a proud grin to their companion's lips. "Yes, even those dumb beasts wouldn't dare harm a hair on this handsome head. Unlike you, they recognized my worth, and rightly feared me."

Calvert sighed. "Percelle, that head would make a worthy bucket for all it holds."

For once, the mouthy herald was at a loss for words, and Verna had to stifle a smile to spare the poor man's ego.

They rode on in silence for some time, until Cliope's gentle voice broke the spell. "I just realized," she began, "we've almost reached our destination, but we've barely talked about what we might find there. Shouldn't we be discussing the possibilities, so as to prepare?"

"I expect we'll find nothing more than mindless hollows," Calvert replied. "What else would there be? The town's undoubtedly fallen to the curse, like so many others. Though we may face great numbers, those villagers were simple peasants in their past lives. They do not have a warrior's training. We have the Matron to lead us, and we will use our wits to outsmart the wretches. I'm confident we can handle them without a fuss."

"Yes, of course," the priestess nodded. "And yet, I wonder why we received no word of this. Do we not have clergymen within the village? Why did they not send for us sooner, if such a threat was spreading?"

At this, Calvert shrugged, trying to mask his unease. "That's something we'll have to discover once we get there. It's possible the undead cut off access to the roadways, or perhaps the messengers were all lost to those beasts in the swamp."

"Whatever the case may be, we'll be sure to avenge our brothers," Lendrey said, fists clenched tight around the shaft of his halberd. "We'll kill every last one of those undead bastards. It will be a slaughter."

"And what if our brothers have joined the hollows?"

As one, the others turned to Verna with brows raised, and she met their astonished looks evenly. "If they are indeed fallen, they'll have most likely succumbed to the curse as well. The Darksign does not discriminate between peasant nor priest. Are you prepared to lay your fellow clergymen to rest, if it comes to that?"

The companions glanced at each other, mulling over her suggestion in discomfort, until one of them found the courage to answer. "We must be," Marth stated, much to Verna's surprise. After all, it was for his sake that she had spoken. "If our brothers have gone hollow, it's the least we can do for them. We shall take their lives out of respect, then burn the bodies until they are naught but ash. We will do all we can to keep them from rising once more."

The heralds nodded in agreement, though their mood remained somber. Even if such a thing must be done, no one was looking forward to the prospect.

.

* * *

.

At long last, the wagon came to a shuddering halt. There was a wave of relief among its occupants as the disheveled driver came around to unlatch the rear gate. "Out with ya now," she grumbled. "I've taken y'all as far as I can."

Before them rose a soaring tower built into a cliffside, and at its base, Matron Medeline had thrown open a pair of heavy oak doors. "Come now, children," the evangelist ushered them in with glee. "Stretch your sore backsides and sharpen those sleepy eyes. New Arston awaits us!"

As the driver spurred her undead hounds into motion, and the cart barreled off down the hillside, the company obediently fell in line. Without a word, they followed their leader into a torchlit hall supported by sturdy pillars. Their footsteps echoed against the stone walls as they made their way to the adjoining room, where a short staircase curled towards a wooden lift. Medeline ordered them up in three groups — first, her and two heralds, then the priestesses, and last the remaining soldiers. Verna gripped the railing tightly as creaking chains dragged them upward, causing the shoddy platform to tremble unnervingly. However, they reached the top without incident, and joined the others on the middle floor of the tower.

This hallway was littered with dozens of half-melted candles, casting eerie shadows along the cold walls. As the Matron led them to the closed doors at the other end, a steady noise reverberated across the chamber, almost like an axe chipping away at a sturdy greatwood. It seemed to be coming from the top of the tower, but Verna had no time to ponder it. The doors grated open, and they stepped out into New Arston.

Unsurprisingly, the dilapidated village had already fallen to ruin and decay. Crumbling shacks balanced precariously atop ledges, some of them already missing walls or roofs. Twisted trees grew unchecked, their leafless branches encroaching on the buildings' boundaries, betraying the carelessness of the inhabitants. Some of the townsfolk were in sight, their clothes as tattered and worn as the rest of their village, their exposed skin shriveled and dark.

It was just as the Church had feared. These people had all gone hollow.

The animated corpses wandered about aimlessly, sometimes poking and prodding at the dirt with their pitchforks, as if attempting to recall their lost purpose. From behind one of the cottages, a much larger undead lumbered forward, a cage chained to his broad back and a wicked double-handled saw in his grips. At the sight of this monstrosity, Verna instinctively drew her Astora blade, even as the blood rushed to her boots. She had seen hollows before, but never one of such stature.

"Be at ready," the Matron cautioned, "but do not attack unless I say." She ventured forward carefully, her charges trailing close behind, each with their shield raised and weapon aimed.

As they approached, the hooded brute staggered around to face them. A hoarse growl rumbled from his throat, and his fingers tightened on the saw. Verna tensed, suddenly wishing that she too had a shield, as her parrying dagger would be utterly useless against such a thing. The hollow's shoulders heaved with a violent bellow, but as the team prepared for a fight, the saw blade whipped aside, cutting down three villagers in a single motion.

The heralds watched on, repulsed, as the hulking undead swung his cage to the ground and began stuffing the bloodied bodies inside. While he was occupied, practically ignoring the newcomers entirely, Medeline motioned for her party to move forward. They stepped silently past the lout, each expecting him to strike again at any moment, but he remained engrossed in his gruesome task.

Soon, they caught sight of two more oversized hollows standing beside a boiling cauldron. Like the first, they barely acknowledged the clergymen, staring instead into the bubbling broth as if entranced. They were absentmindedly tossing in raw meat from heavy sacks, and Verna caught sight of human limbs being thrown in without pause. She had to forcibly swallow back her rising bile, and refused to think of what they might further do to those limbs once they had softened into stew. Something was terribly wrong with this village, something beyond the undead curse.

.

* * *

.

The company crossed over a short cobblestone bridge that spanned a jagged chasm, the floor of which was littered with bleached bones and broken rubble. They arrived at a small clearing that was thankfully devoid of hollows, allowing them a brief respite, and the chance to speak unhindered.

"What the devil was _that_ all about?" Percelle muttered. "I thought hollows were supposed to be mindless husks. They didn't even bother attacking us."

"Perhaps they aren't completely gone, yet?" Calvert proposed. "Maybe we caught them before they went fully hollow."

"Could be," Marth agreed. "Not all hollows are crazed fiends. These villagers seem to be clinging to their last shreds of humanity, staving off the madness of death."

"They looked pretty dead to me," Lendrey said.

That cracking noise continued to echo through the air, and Verna could not help but gaze up at the tower to discern its source. Her mouth parted in fascination as she caught sight of a lone giant at its peak, firing an endless barrage of arrows into the village from his greatbow. Its drawstring, no doubt as thick as her arm, snapped loudly with each shot, a declaration of the deadly impact that was sure to follow.

"A servant of the Church," Medeline explained, noting the herald's interest, and the others soon spotted the giant as well. "It is quite fortunate that he still holds his post. Take heart, children, for we are not alone in our mission."

The troupe traveled down a rocky road, leading to a looming monastery at the end of a wide staircase. Above them sat a handful of naked hollows curled up along a ledge, cradling their hairless heads and rocking steadily. Verna could hear them weeping pitifully, obviously deranged, yet they made no move as the clergymen passed. She prayed Marth was right, but something told her there was more to this than met the eye. However, she did not want to voice her fears unfounded, so she remained quiet.

As they neared the staircase, something rose from behind a tree. The party halted abruptly as a skeletal dog loped towards them, barking and gnashing its fangs. "Hounds!" the Matron called out as two more beasts sprang into view, charging eagerly towards their perceived prey.

Lendrey met the first dog head-on. He jabbed with his halberd as it lunged, impaling the hound upon its pointed tip. As it flailed its legs and snapped its jaw, Verna rushed forward, taking off half the thing's head with her blade. The creature went limp as a second one crashed into Calvert's shield, only to have its neck pierced by Marth's spearhead, pinning it to the ground. Calvert landed a second blow to finish off the writhing animal.

The last dog bounded straight through their ranks, slipping past Fordin's spear thrust and pouncing on one of the unprotected priestesses. She shrieked as its fangs found her arm. It tore through flesh and muscle, shaking her limb like a flimsy rope. Cliope cried out as she rushed to her fellow cleric's aid, unarmed but unwilling to stand by and watch. Before she or anyone else could act, though, the Matron's spiked mace slammed down.

The beast was flattened under the blow, its festering guts spewing out from its sides. Its jaws remained locked around the priestess's arm in a death-grip, even as its skull clung to its body by a few sinewy strands. Cliope immediately ran to unhinge the dog's mouth, ignoring the viscera squishing beneath her shoes, and the Matron spun on the heralds indignantly.

"Get that blasted thing off her!" she bellowed, and they jumped to obey. As they carefully removed the creature's fangs from the weeping woman, Medeline approached Percelle, who stood stiff as a board, eyes suddenly brimming with fear beneath the husky woman's glare.

"Tell me, boy," she hissed between clenched teeth, "have you suddenly become afflicted with stupor? Have your limbs ceased to respond? Why did you stand idle while a cleric was being assaulted?"

"I... I'm sorry, Matron," he stammered. "It was... it moved so fast, I—"

In an instant, the evangelist's heavy book cracked the herald across the face, nearly knocking his helmet loose. "Rubbish!" she spat. "Fordin found ample time to strike, and he's barely recovered from the last skirmish you slept through!" She gripped the quivering man by the collar and pulled him close, mere inches from her mirthless grin. "You'd best find your balls fast, little man, or I'll be forced to check if they're still attached."

She released Percelle, blood streaming from his bruised nose, then turned to the others. "Two of you go and check that door ahead, see what's behind it. We shall wait here and waste precious resources healing our healer."

"I'll go," Marth volunteered promptly. "Lendrey, with me." His companion nodded, and they followed their orders with haste, lest they give their leader any more reason to become enraged.

"Matron," the wounded priestess struggled to speak between wracking sobs, "Forgive me... I should have been more cautious..."

"Nonsense," Medeline huffed. "It's the heralds' duty to protect you from harm, and their fault that you suffered any." She stared each of them in the face, making certain her words were being heard. "And I'm sure they know well enough that if our clerics should fall, there will be little to hold back death from claiming every last one of us. It's the clerics' duty to keep us alive. If you can't even protect them, how do you expect to protect yourselves? You won't! You will die, and you will all end up like _that!"_ She thrust a finger towards the moaning hollows behind them. "Worthless wretches without a soul to share between them! Is that what you want? Is that all your training and preparation will amount to?"

"No, Matron," the heralds spoke as one.

The evangelist drew a deep, steadying breath. "Then prove it."

While Cliope healed the priestess's arm, Marth and Lendrey returned from their brief scouting. "The doors are locked tight, Matron," Marth informed her. "No way through. We tried."

"Seems like some kind of church," Lendrey ventured to guess. "I doubt anyone would be using it now, given the state this town's in."

Medeline peered over them at the ominous building. "I suppose you're right. In that case, we move on past those hollows, towards the town's center." She took the cleric's arm, inspecting it with a care that was uncommon for her, then nodded satisfactorily. "Let's go."

.

* * *

.

They journeyed on into the village, keeping a wary eye on the weeping undead, regardless of how unthreatening they might have seemed. Everyone was on edge after the Matron's scolding, as if finally realizing the severity of their mission. There was no more banter, no more questions. Even Percelle remained silent, though he sniffed occasionally as he wiped the trickling blood from his face. Despite the man's impotence, Verna could not help but feel sympathy for him. It was mere days ago that they had all been at the cathedral, where the greatest danger they faced was Captain Brommand's disapproval. Now, their very lives depended on each other. At least Percelle had smartened up at long last, if only to avoid drawing further ire from Medeline.

As they made their way through an alley, with buildings sagging overhead on rotted foundations, Marth dared to speak again. "Where is everyone? Even if the townsfolk were cursed, there should be many more than what we've seen. There are no hollows here, no bodies... nothing."

Medeline stroked her hairy chin. "I've been wondering that myself. Something is not right."

Verna could not be sure if she felt better or worse at hearing her own fears spoken aloud.

A stable lay ahead, and inside, a couple hollows were prodding at bales of hay with rusted pitchforks. As the party entered, the gaunt figures paused to stare at them with empty sockets, putting everyone on guard. The Matron paused for only a moment, then cautiously continued past. She never took her eyes off the undead, and they gazed back without expression, devoid of fear or anger. They watched the clergymen follow close behind, keeping the priestesses safe behind raised shields, but even this defensive gesture drew no response. Once they had passed through the stable, the undead peasants returned to their fruitless labor, and the heralds shared anxious glances. Verna was starting to think she would rather be attacked; at least then she would know how to respond to the situation.

"Oh, goodness me," Medeline whispered, startling the others with her abrupt sobriety. Then, as they gazed across an old wooden bridge to the spectacle beyond, they understood.

Before them lay a wide clearing filled with countless hollows. Their sudden numbers were startling, but even more so were their actions. Each and every one of them was bowing in unison to a burning greatwood in the midst of their congregation, raising and lowering their arms as if venerating the fiery tree. Verna nearly dropped her sword at the sight. The Church elders had shared many tales of the undead, but she could not remember ever hearing of such a thing.

Apparently, from their Matron's reaction, neither had she.

"Look, there," Medeline spoke in a hushed tone, pointing towards the base of the burning tree. As if to further stretch their disbelief, they spotted another evangelist leading the hollows in prayer, her book clutched tightly to her breast. At her side was a blue-robed cleric, his hollowing apparent even from that distance. He too bowed to the greatwood in worship, pressing his face against the dirt with each decline.

As Verna stared on, perplexed, the Matron unexpectedly walked forward into the roiling sea of hollows. After a hesitant moment, the others forced themselves to follow, even though they were cowed by the sheer number of undead. They stepped warily through the bodies, careful not to touch any of them for fear that the entire assembly would rise up against the interlopers.

Somehow, Medeline steered her portly self through the crowd without a fuss, eyes locked on the woman at their center. "Clerane?" she said as she neared, recognizing the figure from their cathedral. "Oh, good sister, what has become of you?"

"Ahh..." the evangelist moaned incoherently. "Ahh... the trees..."

"Please, Clerane," the Matron beseeched her, "try to recall yourself. You must. What in the Lord's name has happened here?"

The evangelist raised her head to behold the inferno, its flames reflecting in her black eyes. "Ohh... the trees... They burn... they burn for us..."

For once, Medeline's thin lips sagged into a troubled frown. "Why do they burn, sister? Tell me."

The evangelist finally turned to her counterpart, as if noticing her for the first time, and her smile stretched impossibly wide. "Absolution..."

As the Matron struggled to make sense of this answer, Cliope suddenly gasped behind her. As one, the clergymen looked to the direction she was facing, and together, they saw what had startled her so. There in the distance, between the crumbling buildings, were perhaps fifty men or more marching towards them. The sounds of their heavy bootsteps could already be heard, and the sun glistened off their wicked, matching greatswords. More terrifying than those hefty blades, however, were the rows of pointed helmets that shadowed their faces.

"Merciful Gwyn," Calvert swore breathlessly. "It's the Legion."


	10. Eclipse 1

**Eclipse 1 – We Are Legion**

.

The undead army drew ever closer, until the heralds could practically make out the reddened bags beneath their eyes. Medeline left the crazed evangelist to stand at the forefront of her company, placing herself firmly between them and the advancing troops. Her persistent smile was gone. Now, she stared stone-faced at the Legion of Farron, fingers sliding discreetly around the haft of her mace.

"Put away your weapons," she warned. "Do not act. Do not speak. Do not meet their gaze. Stay behind me, and let me do the talking."

As one, they moved apart from the mass of reverent hollows. Verna longed to look to her fellow heralds for strength, but she could not tear herself away from the imposing horde descending upon them — the Abyss Watchers. The mere sight of their conical helms and flowing capes chilled her to the bone. Everyone knew to fear the Legion. Their reputation for destruction was legendary, their notorious methods spoken of only in whispers. They served as the vanguard against the ceaseless Dark, merciless prosecutors of the horrors that crawled from within. They would go to any lengths to ensure its eradication. Entire kingdoms were razed to the ground, whole nations slain to the last man. It was often said that the appearance of their steepled hats was an omen of death to come.

Now, they were here.

A legionnaire at the head of the column raised a clenched fist. Immediately, the marching boots halted, ushering in an uneasy silence. Their leader's narrow eyes drifted over the gathering, his expression unreadable behind the tightly threaded collar. Then, lowering his hand, he turned to the meager party before him. The clergymen quickly averted their gaze; they would have done so even without the Matron's prompting, so great was their terror.

"Declare yourselves at once," the Watcher rasped. His voice was like a cold wind hissing through the boughs of dead trees.

"Hail, legionnaire." Medeline offered a curt nod. "We are missionaries from the Cathedral of White. We've traveled far to liberate this town from the curse. We were not expecting your presence, but you honor us with it all the same."

For a moment, the Watcher gave no response. His blank stare slid back to the throng of hollows around them. "What is the meaning of this?"

"We're not entirely sure of it ourselves," the Matron confessed. "We've only just arrived, but have not been met with hostility. From what I gather, the villagers burn these trees in some kind of ritual, to... distract themselves from the hopelessness of their situation."

"So... they are not yet fallen to the Abyss."

"No, legionnaire. As you can see, some of our clergymen have hollowed as well, yet they retain their senses. I believe there is still hope for them."

"And what of yourselves?"

The Matron's back stiffened. "I assure you, we are far removed from the influence of the Dark. These warriors are alive and well, the curse has not even begun to touch them. We walk together in the light."

The Watcher studied each of their pale faces. Verna kept her eyes lowered, but nevertheless, she could feel the suffocating judgment upon her. After an agonizing moment, the undead warrior nodded in satisfaction. "So it would seem," he relented.

Medeline visibly relaxed at his words. "If I may ask, legionnaire, what brings you to these lands? Your sage told us you were absent on some urgent mission."

"We are returning home," the Watcher said. "We have claimed victory after a tiring campaign against the heretics of Carthus. Those fools readily embraced the Abyss, but fear not. The threat has been extinguished. We buried that forsaken city beneath the sands."

As he spoke, Verna began to notice how weary his soldiers were. The Watchers stood hunched over, swords dragging at their sides, on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. Their armor was chipped and blemished, especially their iron kneecaps. Their frayed cloaks were damp with blackened filth. The endless war against the Dark was taking its toll.

"I thank the Lord that you emerged triumphant," Medeline praised. "Your services do not go unheeded. Rest assured, we—"

His hand abruptly silenced here. The man's attention was drawn to a single hollow, who had risen from his worship and stood staring at them vacantly. The legionnaire glowered back, then slowly approached the wretched figure.

"Please, sir," Medeline beseeched him, her voice growing strained. "Forgive the poor soul. He means no disrespect."

The Watcher seemed not to hear her. He stood face to face with the cadaverous creature, barely a foot from its sunken visage. "Your eyes..." he seethed, fist constricting on his blade. "They are... so dark... I see the _Abyss in them!"_

In a flash, his greatsword cleaved the dead man in two.

A screeching cry left the hollow as its torso toppled to the ground. A ripple spread across the gathering, heads turned from worship, then the cry was echoed a hundredfold. Villagers rose with weapons in hand, surging towards them with pitchforks and cleavers waving. As they came, the lone warrior went to meet them, arrogantly welcoming the impossible battle.

"The Dark has claimed them!" one of the legionnaires roared. "To arms, brothers!"

"No!" shouted another. "Stay your hand! They did not provoke this!"

Most of the Watchers ran to their leader's side, swords and daggers drawn. Others vainly tried to hold their comrades back. Conflicting orders were issued as the two armies collided, steel ringing against steel, screams of death quickly saturating the air. The heralds huddled behind their Matron in confusion, caught unawares by the sudden insanity.

The quiet town had become chaos.

Amidst the madness, a single legionnaire pushed through the combatants, desperately calling out to his commander. The lead Watcher tore through the onslaught of hollows with ruthless efficiency, his broad blade and serrated dagger ripping them to shreds. The soldier finally came within arm's length of his leader and grabbed him by the shoulder. "Commander! We must pull back! These people are not our—"

Without hesitation, the commander plunged his greatsword into his fellow Watcher's chest. The man's eyes bulged in shock and betrayal, then he was callously thrown from the blade by a solid kick. The others saw their companion crumple, and all at once, their aggression shifted.

"The commander is fallen!" came a rallying cry. "Honor him! The commander is fallen!"

 _"Honor him!"_ A flood of voices barked in response as they rushed their rabid leader. The first legionnaire to reach him slid to the ground, using his dagger as a fulcrum. Heels and blade skidded across the dirt, but dirt was all he touched. The commander vaulted high, staking his greatsword through his comrade as he cartwheeled overhead. His sword followed as he landed, flinging the body into the oncoming warriors and slicing through another unfortunate soldier at the same time. The berserk Watcher was caught between two tides, and still he fought on. He cut down hollow and legionnaire alike, murdering both friend and foe. Sickles, pitchforks, and daggers drove through his body, but nothing could stop his frenzy.

As the Legion fell to quarreling, a group of peasants broke around them, heading straight for the cowering clergymen. Verna felt her veins run cold as the pack stampeded towards them. Everywhere she turned were empty eye sockets, toothless maws, and rusted, dull blades. The heralds raised their shields in a pitiful defense, jaws clenched in anticipation, when the Matron was standing before them.

"Be strong, children!" she shouted above the fray. "We fight together!" Medeline unslung her mace and whipped it through the crowd in one fluid motion, flattening an entire row of undead. One of them came from behind, gouging her side with a sickle, but it barely fazed the woman. Her thick tome crushed the hollow's head, bursting it open into gory chunks. As the teeming mob pressed closer, the heralds fell back to their training, even while their hands trembled upon their weapons. Shields came together, forming a tight wall around the priestesses. Spears and halberds thrust out, piercing and stabbing at the endless bodies. Those that fell were soon trampled by the next wave. Verna's blade cut to and fro, hacking off arms and heads, but still the mindless hollows pushed forward.

The Matron brought her spiked mace down, obliterating a single peasant. She swung upward and knocked a head clean from its shoulders. She fought like a demon possessed, spinning her wicked club in every direction, yet the swarm would not relent. Rusty blades began to find their mark, drawing blood from her arms and torso. Medeline ignored the shallow wounds and kept up the assault, a pile of corpses slowly collecting around her feet.

As she whirled upon the next enemy, her mace paused. Her fellow evangelist stood there, smiling sweetly, and took the Matron in a loving embrace. "Clerane?" Medeline gasped.

"Sister," the woman cooed, "let me cleanse your curse..."

Without warning, the two evangelists erupted into flames. Verna watched in horror as Medeline dropped her weapon, trying to push herself free to no avail. She did not even scream as the fire consumed them both.

"Matron!" Cliope rushed forward, but Calvert quickly grabbed her around the waist. "She's gone!" he screamed, struggling to hold back the priestess and the crowd at once. He flailed with his halberd in one hand, gashing open any who came too close, but the undead ignored their wounds and kept coming. Marth and Fordin were by his side in an instant, guarding against the numerous blows that fell upon them.

"Protect the clerics!" Marth roared, spearing a villager through the mouth. "Do not break formation!" A pitchfork went above his shield and tore into his eye, drawing a sharp curse from the warrior. He jabbed blindly at his assailant, blood pumping from his face, when Verna leapt to his aid. She chopped off the hollow's hands in one swipe, then split its head open. Immediately, another took its place, its cleaver missing her by a hair. She had no time to help her wounded companion as more and more of the mindless fiends congested around them.

"We have to fall back!" Percelle cried over the pandemonium. "Get the clerics back!" No sooner had he spoken than three hollows plowed into his shield, bawling him over. He used both hands to keep from being crushed as a fourth climbed over them, cleaver poised to strike. Lendrey thrust his spear into its side, but it was not enough. The blade fell through one of the priestess's necks, releasing a spray of fine red mist.

With a scream of rage, Lendrey lifted the peasant bodily and flung him back, then began jabbing at those on top of Percelle. Behind them, Cliope caught the maiden as she collapsed, hands pressed to her throat in a useless gesture. Blood spewed between her fingers, soaking both their gowns. Cliope wept openly as she started casting her miracle, but the chime had barely begun to ring before the girl's eyes glossed over, and her hands fell from her neck.

The heralds were overrun. Verna slashed wildly, her vision clouded with undead. She could no longer tell who was alive, who fought beside her. Spears and halberds flashed in the corners of her eyes, the only sign that she was not yet alone. She thrashed about like a cornered beast as metal grazed her armor, scratched at her skin, whistled past her head. She expected to die at any moment.

Then, something strange happened. As the heralds battled for their lives, the sea of hollows began to subside. Their volume was still staggering, but their focus was elsewhere. Verna labored for breath as the peasants turned away, distracted by something that mowed them down from behind.

A dagger plunged into a hollow's temple. The Watcher ripped it free, adding its body to the pile of dismembered corpses that surrounded him. Then, he spotted the heralds. He dashed towards them with blinding speed, felling another peasant along the way. Fordin stepped bravely to meet him, bracing his shield against the attack. As the legionnaire closed in, he dropped at the last second, sword sweeping in a wide arc. The herald bellowed as he toppled over, legs severed at the knees, spear clattering uselessly beside him.

He had barely struck the ground when the greatsword slammed through his skull, silencing his agony. Verna balked at sight of Fordin's ruptured face, no longer recognizable. She heard Marth scream his name, sounding a hundred leagues away. The Watcher raced at them again, knocking Lendrey off his feet with a heavy strike to his shield, then leapt into the air. He spiraled gracefully, spinning his blade around in a feat of inhuman strength. Verna could only stare, frozen, as death bore down on her.

A second sword crossed above, bringing the blow to a clashing halt. Another Watcher had intervened. Their dagger slashed out, tearing open the soldier's stomach, then the sword twirled about and lopped off his head. His body buckled lifelessly as their defender turned to face them. "Are you still lucid?"

Verna had to will her tongue to respond. "Wh-what?"

"Are your men still sane?" The voice was that of a woman's, though deep and coarse with age. Verna managed a feeble nod. "Get yourselves gone from here. I will hold my brethren at bay."

With that, the mysterious Watcher returned to battle. Her massive sword moved as if it were a feather, spinning deftly through the air, felling any who dared approach her. The heralds picked off the few who made it past, but those numbers were scarce. She swiped and thrust tirelessly, slaying hollows without pause, and meeting her own kind without remorse. A legionnaire swung viciously, but she weaved between his strikes untouched. Her dagger dug into his knee, causing him to falter. Her blade took off his sword arm. He went still, seemingly resigned to defeat, the moment before she ran him through. The woman lay him down gently as even more villagers rushed to their deaths.

Before she could touch them, steel swept through the crowd, decimating their ranks. As the bodies toppled to pieces, a lone figure rose to face the fleeing party. It was the Legion's commander. He sported countless wounds, leather and chainmail clinging to his bloodied body in ribbons. A sickle tore through his gut; a cleaver dug into his collarbone; a clawed Farron dagger pierced his arm. The broken heads of pitchforks jutted from his back. One of his own soldier's greatswords ran straight through his torso. Despite the grievous injuries, he stood fast, and fixed the terrified heralds with gleaming red eyes.

The woman stared at him in profound sorrow. Then, she aimed her sword towards the maddened champion, crossing the curved dagger over her arm in a salute of respect. "Commander..." she whispered, "I will honor you."

The corrupt Watcher threw his own dagger aside and charged. As he ran, he grasped the hilt of the greatsword embedded in his chest and tore it free in a gout of blood. He flipped the heavy blade around, holding it in reverse, then the pair met in a flurry of metal.

The commander spun both swords in a ferocious windmill, while the woman nimbly evaded and retaliated in turn. They twisted about each other like serpents, lashing out relentlessly, their duel dropping any hollow that was foolish enough to wander too close. She dealt blow after blow, cutting flesh again and again, but to no effect. His blades eventually found her, leaving lethal gashes all across her body. Still they endured, neither side refusing to fall, their blood painting the ground in vivid strokes.

As their deadly dance raged on, the villagers returned with a vengeance. They came unchecked, piling around the heralds, slashing and clawing hungrily. The faithful warriors fought back, but they were losing ground. Their chance at retreat was dwindling.

"Help me!" cried the other priestess. She had been caught by an unarmed peasant, dragged by the hair away from the group. Calvert tried to reach her, but he crashed into a wall of hollows, savagely swinging his halberd through their numbers. Even as they fell, more took their place, and the shrieking woman disappeared into the writhing mass.

They were beset from all sides. The remaining heralds circled around Cliope, trying to force open an escape route, but with every foot they gained, another hollow filled the gap. The rampant herd flowed around them, threatening to trap them for good, and Verna could feel her will to live surrendering.

To her surprise, one of the heralds barreled headfirst into the converging hollows, his shield discarded. It was Percelle. He wailed as he twirled his spear in frantic fury, slicing through the neverending undead, his voice brimming with anger and despair. "Run!" he called to his companions. "Save yourselves!" The commotion he created drew the wretches to him like crows to a carcass.

By instinct, Verna moved to join him, but a strong hand held her back. "We have to leave!" Marth ordered. He dragged her away as she struggled against his grip, looking to the solitary herald with tearful eyes. Though he fought valiantly, it was only moments before he was overwhelmed. A cleaver snapped his spear in two. Another slit open his thigh. Percelle stumbled to one knee, wielding the broken halves of his spear to bash and stab at the smothering bodies. His screams rose to an unbearable pitch as they began to mutilate him. One chopped off his arm, another mauled his stomach with a pitchfork. Rotted fingers dug into his eyes and mouth as his guts spilled onto the ground, and still Verna could not look away. She screamed with him, begging the gods to save him, though she knew it was hopeless.

Marth released her. With a powerful throw, he sent his spear sailing through the air. It fell through the center of Percelle's chest, and at last, his cries were silenced.

The world wavered through her watery eyes. Verna forced herself to keep moving, to stay with the surviving few as they battled on, but her spirit was broken. Death and devastation surrounded them. Blood cascaded across the earth, staining all that it touched. The whole world seemed to be fading along with her sanity, becoming dimmer with each passing step. Her very senses were failing her.

No. It was not an illusion. The skies had indeed grown darker, fading to a shade of deep crimson, as if the very heavens bled in accord with those below. Verna stared up in overwhelming dread and confusion, her wits abandoning her entirely. She no longer knew this world. It had become a surreal nightmare, one which would devour them all.

Then, she beheld the sun.

It was no more. That golden light, that unfaltering radiance which had shone through all her days, had vanished.

In its place hung a gaping black hole.


	11. Eclipse 2

**Eclipse 2 – Feast**

.

Klimt listened to the soft echo of footsteps approaching, but did not welcome them. He was kneeling before a statue of the veiled goddess, eyes closed in prayer, and was not about to let anyone interrupt his silent worship. The visitor paused, waiting patiently at length until the Archdeacon had finished. With a frail sigh, the elderly man rose on shaky legs and addressed his guest.

"Greetings, brother. What can I do for you?"

The young priest bowed respectfully, but his face was taut with worry. The candles of the cleansing chapel cast shadows across his features, deepening the creases of distress that sullied them. He opened his mouth to respond, yet no words came forth. The Archdeacon frowned as the man glanced behind him, eyes darting to the dark corners of the room, as if he might spot some frightful apparition lurking there.

"What ails you, my son?" Klimt pressed him. "This place is safe. You may speak freely here."

The deacon took a ragged breath before responding. "Your holiness, I... I must make a confession. I fear I have committed a terrible sin..."

"And what manner of sin might this be?"

"It's... It shames me to put it to words. It... involves the other Archdeacons..."

Klimt's spine creaked as he straightened in suspicion. "Your name is Alwyn, is it not?" The priest nodded. "Speak plainly, Alwyn. I will listen in earnest, you have my word."

The youth swallowed nervously. "The other deacons... Some time ago, they came to me, demanded to know if I was faithful. They questioned my loyalty to Saint Aldrich. I told them I was true to him, and to our Church, as always. Then... they told me there would be a test... a trial, to prove my devotion. They... I..."

Klimt began to lose his patience. "Spit it out, man! Tell me what has transpired."

The deacon looked as if he might crumble at any moment. "Oh, Lord forgive me... I ate with them, Archdeacon. I... I partook of... the converts..."

The wrinkles around the old man's eyes sharpened. "You _what?"_

"I... We ate them... all of us... We consumed their flesh..."

His admission lingered in the palpable silence between them. The priest was downcast, eyes clenched tight in guilt, as Klimt struggled to grasp the full implication of his words. "Alwyn," he said breathlessly, "what are you saying? You _ate_ them? McDonnell, Royce... they actually allowed this?"

"Not just allowed. They joined us. McDonnell, he... he consumed more than anyone... anyone, save for our Saint..."

"Dear gods. Aldrich shares part in this?" Then, the Archdeacon reeled as the true horror struck him. "Alwyn... what of the children?"

At this, the young man stifled a cry and fell to his knees, shuddering visibly. "Please, your holiness! I have said all I dare say! I cannot... I do not want to remember any more!"

Klimt felt his insides knotting together, as if they had transformed into a writhing mess of serpents. He stared into nothing, wavering on his feet, before finally laying a hand on the weeping man's shoulder. "You must, my son. You must remember every face that attended that... that atrocity. You will tell me each of their names. That is the only hope you have of finding redemption. Do you understand?"

The deacon nodded frantically, grasping at the elder's bony hand for support. "Yes, Archdeacon! Anything, please! I wish to be rid of these horrible sights! I cannot stand them! I cannot sleep! All I see in my dreams are... are their poor faces... screaming..."

"Enough." Klimt dragged the man to his feet, cupping his face strongly so they were eye to eye. "Pull yourself together, and listen very carefully to me. After you leave here, go about your duties as if nothing were wrong. Do not lose your composure. Do not let them suspect anything. Once you are finished, make your way to my chambers. Be certain that no one follows you. We'll find a way to right this terrible travesty, I promise."

Alwyn continued to nod, fighting to hold back his tears. "Archdeacon... there is one more thing. I think they might be planning something. I can't imagine what, but something doesn't feel right, more so than ever. It's why I came to you. I didn't know who else to tell..."

"You did the right thing, Alwyn. Do not fear. I will seek out others to aid us. Whatever McDonnell is planning, we _will_ stop him."

After the deacon had gathered himself, he departed without another word, leaving Klimt alone in the cleansing chapel. The old man's knuckles turned white with quiet rage. "Damn you, McDonnell," he seethed. "What have you done?"

.

* * *

.

There was a soft rapping at the door. Klimt shivered as he returned to the present, banishing the ghastly images he had conjured in his head. He had been trying to fathom the vile secrets surrounding his fellow Archdeacons, but he was certain that the truth was more diabolical than he could even conceive of. He cleared his throat, then bade his visitor to enter.

Alwyn slipped into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. "Were you followed?" Klimt asked.

"No, your holiness," the priest replied as he took a seat. "The halls are empty... unusually so. Everyone's gone, or in hiding."

The Archdeacon folded his fingers in thought. "McDonnell must be preparing to make his move. You're certain you've no inkling of what they could be plotting?"

The priest furrowed his brow in strained thought. "I'm sorry. They didn't see fit to involve me in their most clandestine meetings. All I can say is that, with our converts dwindling as of late, there has been a rising tension. It doesn't feel like worry or fear, but... anticipation. They are preparing for something. I only wish I could provide you with their motive."

"Tell me their names. I need to know who I should count as an enemy, and who are yet our allies."

"There were many, your holiness," Alwyn admitted. "It might be easier to recount those who weren't there. McDonnell and Royce, and those closest to them, were all in attendance. Galen, Polk, Merle, Bahram, and many more. The remaining evangelists were there as well, including Matron Dorhys. I suspect the cathedral knights will also stand by McDonnell. They were not present, but I have witnessed the passing of bribes between them."

Klimt felt an acrid bile rising in his throat. "How has such corruption spread through our Church?" he wondered aloud. "How could we have been so blind as to their true faces?"

"They are deceptive beyond reason, your holiness. When they first approached me, they disguised it as a test, as I mentioned. From my understanding, if one were to refuse consumption, the deacons would treat it as the proper response. They claimed the true test was to refuse temptation, even when pressured by one's superiors. Then, they swore those who refused to secrecy, so that others would not have their trial spoiled for them. However, if one relented... one as hopelessly foolish as myself... then it was already too late. You had shared in their sins, and there is no returning from—"

A sharp knock interrupted them. Alwyn spun in sudden fright, but Klimt waved him down. "It's alright, my son. This is at least one person I can entrust to aid us. Enter."

The door opened as Captain Brommand strode into the chamber, dressed in his full ceremonial armor. "Archdeacon," the paladin bowed deeply. "How may I be of service?"

"Thank you for joining us, my friend," Klimt replied. "Alwyn? Please tell the Captain what you've told me. Every last word."

This time, the man's confession poured out all at once like a flood of remorse. He could barely contain his grief as he recounted the wicked deeds he had committed with the other deacons. He described the converts' terror as they were burned alive, and after that, consumed entirely. He trembled as he revealed how the others devoured their victims with glee, delighting in every scream and shudder that issued from the charred bodies. As Alwyn regurgitated his crimes, the captain's stony expression never faltered, but the color slowly drained from his face until it was pale as alabaster.

Once the priest had quieted, the paladin took a deep, steadying breath. "This must not go unpunished," he growled, fist tight around the hilt of his sword.

"On that we are agreed," Klimt said solemnly. "Now, Alwyn, tell us who we might still rely upon. Only those who you have complete confidence in."

Alwyn nodded eagerly. "As I said, there were many in attendance, but I can name those who were not privy to this evil. Not once did I see any heralds there, nor the priestesses. Of the deacons, I believe we can still trust Langrist, Cleary, Abner, Malkayne..."

As the names went on, Klimt tallied their numbers, slowly envisioning the ranks of his army. He could only pray they would be enough. "Captain," he spoke once the priest had finished, "prepare your heralds. We will need every able-bodied man armed and ready for battle."

Brommand gave a curt nod. "Of course, your holiness. We won't let these traitors take our Church without a fight."

While the warrior departed, Klimt returned to the timid priest. "Alwyn, seek out those deacons still faithful to our cause. Tell them to gather outside the Cathedral's entrance. We will meet there, and together, we will put a stop to McDonnell's schemes, whatever they may be."

Alwyn stood with a gracious bow. "Yes, Archdeacon. I will take utmost care with my task."

"Very good. We cannot tip our hand yet, not until we are prepared."

When he was alone again, Klimt rose from his chair and turned to the silver spear hanging against the wall. His fingers traced its smooth shaft, admiring its immaculate craftsmanship, then hoisted it from its perch. He was far from the warrior he used to be, yet the bident still felt light as a feather in his hands. After all these years, the time had come to wield it once again.

"Heavenly Mother, grant me strength," he whispered in prayer, clasping the pendant that hung around his neck for support. "Grant me the power to smite this evil that has infected our holy land. Help me to banish this darkness and return us to the light. I beg of you, watch over us in our hour of need. For our Father, for our Church... for those poor children..."

If the Heavenly Mother heard his prayers, she gave no sign.

.

* * *

.

The heralds had gathered outside the cathedral fully armed. Archdeacon Klimt stood before them, two-pronged spear in hand, with Captain Brommand flanking his right side. Klimt gazed over the warriors, young and old, all sharing looks of confusion and concern. They had no idea what was to come, but in truth, neither did he. The old man sighed apprehensively as he addressed the gathering.

"Faithful deacons and warriors of White," he began, softer than he would have liked, "today we find ourselves at a dangerous crossroads. A terrible, sinful thing has found its way into our Church. Our own brothers and sisters... our very leaders... have been carrying out transgressions in secret. I believe some of you might have even been approached about this very sin without realizing it. How many of you were offered a trial, to prove yourselves to Saint Aldrich?"

As he expected — as he had feared — a vast majority raised their hands.

"You are all here because you chose rightly. You refused to debase yourselves, even at the command of your Archdeacons. But what they didn't tell you is that others... many others... chose wrong. They committed an unimaginable crime. They gorged themselves on the flesh of the converts. They ate their very bodies, yet they faced no punishment, no absolution. Nay... they were rewarded. They were invited to dine with the Saint himself, and feast on their fellow man."

He paused briefly as a ripple of distress flitted through the crowd. "I cannot speak for Aldrich's desires. Indeed, I have not been allowed to see him for some time now. McDonnell keeps his precious savior hidden from prying eyes, and now we know why. I can admit that I've never felt a kinship with McDonnell, but I would never have suspected him of such treason. And as for brother Royce... I still cannot believe he'd side with an outsider over his own kin. I cannot believe he would abandon our way, and yet he has. They have invited evil into our home, and it is up to us to cast it out.

"I am truly sorry for what I must ask of you, but please... have faith in me, now more than ever. We will face these blasphemers, and together, we will make them confess the truth of their sins."

Captain Brommand drew his greatsword, holding it high in the shimmering sun. "Warriors! You must be prepared to fight against your own brothers. Do not think that you have betrayed them, that you have abandoned them. It is our duty to save them from this wickedness and bring them back to the light, even if we have to drag them kicking and screaming! Are you with us!?"

 _"Aye, sir!"_ the heralds chanted in unison. Even though their faces were wrought with unease, their eyes shone in determination. Klimt's chest swelled proudly at the sight. They were many, and they were faithful. They were righteous. By the grace of Gwyn, they would succeed.

As one, they marched up the stairs and through the great iron doors of the cathedral. Straight ahead, on the raised platform where sermons were held, Klimt spotted a congregation of deacons and cathedral knights far outnumbering their own. Even at that distance, he could see the hefty McDonnell among them. The dwarfed figure hovering at his side was undoubtedly Royce. They all stood facing the approaching party, as if expecting their presence.

Klimt pushed aside his doubts and strode boldly towards them. He could sense the hesitation of the others at his back, but he could not falter now. They needed his guidance. They needed to see that at least one of their Archdeacons was still true to their ways. As they passed the sleeping giants, Klimt briefly wondered if the ancient beings might come to their aid, but he knew it was a hopeless folly. Despite their incredible strength, the giants would never raise a hand against the Church, regardless of betrayal. They were too simple-minded to be convinced otherwise.

No. This battle would be fought between brothers alone.

"McDonnell!" Klimt shouted as they approached the platform. "No more secrets! No more excuses! I demand to speak to Aldrich at once!"

The portly Archdeacon peered smugly over the commotion before him. "Ah, brothers," he welcomed them with open arms. "You're just in time. We were about to begin our sermon. We'd be honored if you'd join us."

"You think this a game?" Klimt snapped. "We know what you've done. We know what _all_ of you have done! Say it! I want to hear you confess for yourself this terrible offense you've perpetrated!"

"You mean the converts? The consumption of their flesh? I'd hardly call that an offense." There was an audible gasp behind Klimt as the truth came out, but McDonnell continued unfazed. "Their souls had been sacrificed for the greater good, as we all agreed upon. It only seemed prudent to keep the rest from going to waste."

Klimt grimaced, appalled at McDonnell's audacity. He turned his withering sights on Royce, who seemed to shrink even smaller. "And you went along with this?" he seethed.

The mousy man spread his hands innocently. "Surely you can see the sense in it, brother. You were all but eager to sacrifice their souls, and leave their bodies to hollow and rot. Is this really so different?"

"They were not _sacrificed!"_ Klimt practically roared. "Their souls were to join in unison with Aldrich, to become one as a Lord of Cinder! We gave them a purpose! We granted them salvation! And you would defile their remains so disgracefully? You've all gone mad!"

"You're wrong," McDonnell interrupted. "We have finally seen the truth, thanks to Aldrich. To transcend the curse, we need more than just powerful souls. We need blood. The converts have joined with us completely, both in body and soul. They have not been defiled, but given purpose, just as you said. Together, we will attain salvation."

"The only salvation you'll find is at the end of my blade!" Brommand suddenly threatened, aiming his Astora steel at McDonnell. "Come down and face us, wretch! I'll slay every last one of you by myse—"

A spearhead burst through his chest. The paladin gasped in surprise at the stained metal tip protruding from his sternum. With the last of his strength, he turned stumbling towards the young herald behind him. There stood Oberthen, staring in fear, tears welling in his eyes. "You..." Brommand rasped, blood speckling his lips. "You?"

Without another word, the captain fell dead to the floor.

"I'm so sorry," Oberthen whimpered. "They made me do it, they—"

He never finished his apology. Another herald opened the boy's throat with a swipe of his halberd, nearly severing the head from its shoulders. "Traitor!" he screamed as Oberthen toppled over in spasms, the life pouring from his gaping wound. "How dare you stab him in the back! Have you no honor!?"

Klimt dropped to his knees beside the slain paladin, ignoring the pooling crimson that stained his white robes. Brommand's glassy eyes stared into nothing, a look of confused indignity frozen on his pallid face. The Archdeacon turned to Alwyn in distress. "You..." he choked the words out. "You told us the heralds could be trusted! You told us it was safe!"

"Forgive me, your holiness," Alwyn replied with only a tinge of regret. "It had to be done. They needed us all here, in one place... to bear witness to our new Lord."

Klimt's mouth hung agape as the depths of McDonnell's treachery revealed itself. He stumbled to his feet, then faced his fellow Archdeacons. His skin burned at the sight of McDonnell's arrogant smirk, and Royce's pathetic, apologetic frown. "You bastards!" he cried out, shaking an accusing finger at them. "You heathens! You've gone against everything our Church stands for!"

McDonnell's bloated body shook as he chuckled. "You're a fool, Klimt. This has always been the Way of White's purpose. You've simply been too blind to see it."

"What the devil are you talking about!? Our Lord would never allow such a trespass!"

"Gwyn abandoned us!" McDonnell bellowed. "He doomed us all for the sake of a dying flame! Our forefathers knew it could never last. They were wise enough to seek a better path. You think I am a traitor? Then you must also condemn Allfather Lloyd, Earl Arstor, even Bishop Havel! They all looked to an age without flame, when men would be free to choose their own destiny. We are not the traitors! It is the gods who betrayed _us!"_

"Liar!" Klimt's shoulders heaved in outrage. "All that leaves your tongue are lies!"

"No, brother. I speak the truth, and I will speak all of it, so that you and your flock may be enlightened in the end. It was the Allfather himself who first decided it, you know. It was his wisdom that first saw an end to the age of fire. Under his guidance, our predecessors sent their loyal, tireless undead on a grand mission... to reclaim the secret rites of the Gravelord. Those ignorant fools thought they were serving Gwyn, just like you, but they couldn't have been more wrong."

"Preposterous," Klimt sputtered. "The Allfather was a pious man. He was devoted to our Lord..."

McDonnell ignored the old man's murmurings. "With the Gravelord's ancient knowledge secured, the Church called upon our brothers in Carim. Together with the dark magics of Velka, they harnessed a power that could slay the gods themselves, and thus lift mankind into its great ascension. They called it the black ember. It was lost to us for countless ages, locked far away from our grasp. But at last... at long last... it has been returned.

"We have finally borne fruit to the dreams of the Occult! We now wield the power they forged so long ago, and we... _I_... have given birth to our greatest weapon, that which will end the line of the gods forevermore!"

McDonnell smiled, his black eyes glistening in the candlelight. "Do you still wish to see him, brother?"

A deafening crash resounded across the cathedral. Klimt's blood ran cold as he realized what it was.

The doors to Aldrich's sanctum had opened.

McDonnell turned away from the crowd below, looking to his Saint with arms upraised. Royce mimicked the gesture, and one by one, their loyal deacons did as well. They welcomed the approaching nightmare in rapture, even as Klimt's heart was strangled by fear. His eyes went wide as he beheld the abomination Aldrich had become.

A viscous black slime oozed around the statue of the veiled goddess. It heaved over itself in a roiling mass, churning with the bones of countless dead. It pooled around the feet of the deacons, then rose to their waists, then latched its slick tendrils onto their bodies. It kept surging forward, a neverending wave of death. Klimt stared, frozen in revulsion, as it consumed the willing sacrifices, submerging them all beneath its putrid muck until they had become one with the shapeless horror. The dark sea swirled about itself, climbing higher and higher, a swelling vortex of bodies and bone.

Then, the wave broke.

Screams erupted as the sludge cascaded over those below. The torrential flood constricted around the clergymen, dragging them down and silencing their cries. Some struck back with their weapons in sheer terror, but steel did nothing to halt the tide. The slime thrashed about in an insatiable frenzy, engulfing all that it touched. Heralds and priestesses threw themselves against the unforgiving walls of the cathedral, clawing frantically in a futile attempt to escape their fate.

Klimt abandoned all hope. He fled.

The Archdeacon struggled to push through the hysterical crowd. He shoved himself between the jostling bodies, and when they became too crammed, he forced his way through with his spear. His vision was filled with terrified faces. His ears rang with shrieks of death. He could feel the cold strands lapping against his legs, threatening to draw him under. His heart thundered against his ribs. He could not stop. He dared not stop.

He burst free from the mob, nearly stumbling over his gown, and kept running. He could see the tall double doors ahead, tantalizingly close, but he was sure he would collapse at any moment. The icy wetness that tickled his neck spurred him onward. Klimt panted in agonizing breaths until he finally fell through the threshold on hands and knees.

He had no time to rest. He spun around and heaved against the doors with all the feeble strength he could muster. He wailed aloud as his shoulders cracked from the strain, and the thick metal groaned reluctantly in response. Slowly, they began to slide together, inch by inch. Through the opening, Klimt saw dozens of survivors closing in. They cried out to their Archdeacon, begging him to wait, even as the black mass swallowed them one by one. He clenched his eyes shut, half in pain, half in disgrace, and kept pushing.

The doors sealed shut with a condemning snap. No sooner had they locked than a flurry of fists rained against the other side, pounding uselessly. Suddenly, the doors shuddered under an immense weight, and Klimt fell back as the cries were instantly muffled. His foot missed the first step, and the Archdeacon tumbled down the stairs.

He hit the bottom in a broken heap. The old man gasped for breath, feeling daggers in his sides. His legs bent at odd angles; one foot was nearly wrenched around completely. Even though his frail bones seared in agony, he dragged himself forward by his fingernails, the pristine silver spear scraping across the floor beside him. At last, he passed through the final gate, then struggled to close the heavy doors behind him.

Even after they had shut, they could not block out the echoes of the dying. As the Archdeacon listened to their tortured screams, he sunk to the ground and wept.

In his grief, he did not see the blood-red sky above.

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* * *

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Author's note: If you're curious about what the hell McDonnell was talking about, you can check out my full theory on reddit. Search for user dankbouls87 and find the newest post called "Aldrich, Way of White, and the Occult.")


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